R.J. Fox's Blog

Peanut Butter Chocolate

Two weeks after her husband died, Emily returned to their favorite spot in town: Scoopers. They went there at least once a week – sometimes more in the warmer months. They used the rationale that since they could get there on foot, they would therefore burn enough calories to justify their indulgence.

Aside from the close proximity, they also appreciated the fact that Scoopers offered both soft and hard serve. She preferred soft; James preferred hard. No compromise was necessary. They already had enough of those in their marriage.

Although Emily had a rotation of preferred flavors she would choose from (in fact, she rarely got the same thing twice), James had only one: peanut butter chocolate, which Scoopers always had in stock. The other ice cream shop in town only had the vanilla version with peanut butter chunks, which was unacceptable as far as James was concerned.  They never went back.

After James’s unexpected death, Emily wasn’t sure if she could ever return to Scoopers alone. There were many places she wasn’t looking forward to returning to without James and this was probably at the top of the list. But her craving eventually outweighed her guilt. She reminded herself that James would have wanted her to go. In fact, if the roles were reversed, she was convinced he wouldn’t have hesitated going.

When Emily arrived on foot, she nearly turned around and went right back home. But after taking a few deep breaths, she found the will to enter.

As she waited in line, she thought about the last time they were here: they were out of peanut butter chocolate ice cream!  Based on James’s reaction, you might have thought that someone just spat in his face.

“Unacceptable,” James seethed with uncharacteristic anger.

“He’s kidding,” Emily said, leaping into defense of the poor girl, who James had practically brought to the verge of tears.

She wasn’t convinced.

“I’m not kidding” James confirmed.

“I’m so sorry,” Emily whispered to the girl, not really sure how to handle this.

“Can I get you something else?” the girl asked.

“Nope.”

And then he pushed himself backwards against the counter, in a defiant gesture, adding an even bigger, more embarrassing exclamation mark to the situation.

Emily no longer had any interest in getting ice cream that night, which was certainly no easy feat.

“Don’t let me stop you,” James insisted.

“Is there really no other ice cream you want?” Emily tried reasoning to him like a child.

“No,” he pouted.

 “So to be clear, you’re literally going to choose no ice cream at all, rather than picking something else?”

“And settle?” he snarked.

“Yeah. That is any other normally functioning adult would do.”

“Well, their loss.”

Emily wasn’t used to irrational behavior coming from the otherwise stable, centered man that she called her husband.

“It seems like it’s more your loss. And mine.”

“Nobody’s stopping you from getting what you want.”

“What I want is to just go home,” Emily said, unsure if she was more embarrassed or upset that she was leaving empty-handed.

The rest of their evening was spent in separate rooms. She read a book in the living room – a rare evening where they didn’t watch some form of TV together.

It was just one of those bad nights any couple has every now and again. Fortunately, they still had their whole life together.

Or, so she thought.

Now, it was just one more thing about James she would miss: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

All she could do was hope that James was now in the great ice cream parlor in the sky, eating all the peanut butter ice cream he could ever possibly want.   

Jazz Hands

Ever since the blur of his divorce two years ago, Charlie started frequenting bars on the nights he didn’t have his kids. He knew he should develop a healthier use of his free time, but that time wasn’t now. Though some might suggest he had a drinking problem, he saw it more as a depression problem Living in a basement apartment that saw no sunlight certainly did little to improve his mental health.

If his basement apartment was truly the impetus for heading out several nights a week, he just as well could have chosen a coffee shop instead. Like he used to during his marriage when he wanted to write. But coffee shops didn’t serve alcohol.

Did 1-2 drinks suggest a drinking problem?

Maybe not.

What about 1-2 drinks several nights a week?

Perhaps.

He certainly drank far less on the nights he had his kids, though he was certainly pouring a wee little sipping bourbon more frequently than he used to do. It seemed that the only free nights that he didn’t go to the bar was during illness, or say, a snowstorm. But not even Mother Nature could keep him down.

He headed out to his usual Thursday night spot, which had a jazz quartet. Thursday was always one of his free nights, along with Wednesdays. Sometimes, he would think about for how for three quarters of his kids’ childhood, he never saw them on those days. He was envious of people who saw their kids every day. That felt normal to him. Not whatever this was. He hated this fact about his life. Married friends of his were often envious that he had more time for himself. He reassured him that they had nothing to be envious of and that they should be grateful they didn’t fuck up their family’s life the way he had. It was this type of thinking that led him to bars several nights a week.

He was grateful that he was at least still cordial with his ex – unlike any of his other divorced friends. Most people judged him for this. In the early days they spent many – if not most – “off days” together. But they agreed for everyone’s sake, they both needed more independence. A decision they reached just before their dream Disney trip, which was magical, but dampened with melancholy and regret. When it was all said and done, it was the best vacation that they ever had. But it was also their last. It was in this awareness that they were both determined to make sure to give the kids – and themselves – a special memory that would last a lifetime.        

And they did.

He was worried that awareness of this being their last family trip would hang over their heads like a thundercloud, but he was never happier to be wrong. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this happy.

“I’m so glad we could do this,” he said to her halfway through the trip.

“Me, too,” she said.

It was a surprising moment of tenderness for them both.

It seemed that the more time had passed, the more their friendship deepened. Their situation was far from perfect…but it could have been so much worse. And despite what others may have assumed, they remained one hundred-percent platonic. It seemed that the more time passed, the more difficult it was to remember why their marriage ended in the first place. He had to sometimes remind himself that if things were so great in their marriage, then they never would have gotten divorced.

It were thoughts like these that kept him up all night. No to mention, why he hung out at bars until it was time to be daddy again.

On a typically frigid January night in Michigan, Charlie emerged from his underground bunker to enter into the frigid night. Not even an artic blast could keep indoors. He certainly considered it.

The moment he stepped out of his car, he heard the live jazz emanating from the bar like a siren call. He entered the warm and cozy bar, still adorned with Christmas lights and took his usual spot at the bar, ordered an Old Fashioned, then watched the jazz quartet play through their set.

Charlie slowly sipped his bourbon, vibing to the music with his trusty notebook ready for action once – or, more precisely if his muse struck him. He found himself suddenly fixating on the bass player, who had a forlorn expression that he recognized all too well. After a couple of songs, the band went on break. The bass player took the stool next to him and struck up a conversation with the bartender who could have a second career as a therapist. From what Charlie quickly gathered, the bassist certainly seemed like someone who could have used therapy. Not that he had any room to judge.   

Charlie continued to eavesdrop on their conversation. He knew it was rude, but he couldn’t help himself. Being a fly on the wall was one of the things he enjoyed most about hanging out in bars. Not to mention, it usually provided fodder for his stories. And in turn, his writing his stories became therapeutic.

“How’s your wife?” the bartender asked the beleaguered bassist.

Charlie looked up just as the musician put his head down– another look and gesture he knew all too well. The bassist then confirmed exactly what Charlie was assuming.

 “We’re going through a divorce.”

“I’m so sorry,” the bartender replied.

“Thank you. Just trying to hold it together. For Miles’ sake.”

“How is the little guy doing?”

“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen him since before Thanksgiving. She skipped town to go back home to her parents. And she doesn’t plan on coming back.”

“Is that legal?”

“My lawyer says both yes and no, but more than likely, the judge will rule in my favor. It’s just a matter of staying patient.”

“When do you think this will get resolved?”

The bassist shrugged.

“Her lawyer thinks she has a good case. I would explain it to you if I could.”

 “I’m so sorry.”

   “I never in a million year saw any of this happening. She just completely lost her marbles. It all started when Trump won the election and it was all downhill ever since. She stropped trusting the world. Including me and my parents. It got to the point where she wouldn’t let anyone be around Miles except her. And well, I guess her parents. Covid certainly didn’t help. She became overly obsessed with germs and became even more protective.”

Charlie knew that there are always more than one side to a story – especially as divorce is concerned, but it was impossible not to want to completely side with this poor sad sack. One thing was clear: there could be no winner here. If he wins, he gets his kid back. But that would mean she would lose her support system.

As the bartender took another customer’s order, Charlie took it upon himself to chime in. Typically, he tried to stay out of conversation that didn’t pertain to him. Besides, he didn’t want to blow his cover that he had been eavesdropping. But he couldn’t resist this time.

“Sorry to interject…but I just want to say, I’m sorry to here what you are going through.”

Charlie was well aware of the fact that interjecting himself was a gamble. He would totally understand if the guy told him to mind his own fucking business. Or, worse, if the man popped him in the nose that he was sticking into said business.

“Thank you,” the man said, with tears in his eyes.  “It’s been a living a nightmare. Especially during the holidays. Sometimes, I am so overcome with sadness, I can’t breathe. Usually when I was see a picture of him. Or, hear a song I think of him.”

“It will get better,” Charlie assured him, remember the hell he endured before things got better. “I know this from my own experience. I am on the other side of it now, but I remember those moments when all hope felt lost. I know your situation is different than mine…but it will get better.”

“I hope so. For my son’s sake.

“It will.”

 “I just hope when it’s all said and done, my son will never know what happened.”

“It’s very possible.”

“But it does get better?”

Charlie nodded.

“Yeah. The pain won’t fully go away, but it will certainly fade. And there will be more happy moments than sad. It just might not feel that way for awhile.”

  “Thank you.”

 “I hope you can find refuge in your art. In the end, it’s all we have. And all we need when there is nothing else left.”

“I certainly do,” the bassist nodded. “Every damn note, I play for him.”

“Does Miles have a favorite song?”

“Yeah. ‘All of Me’.”

  “He has good taste!’

“Yeah,” the bassist said, smiling through his tears. “I at least did that right.”

The bandleader approached : “Time to play.”

The bassist downed the rest of his drink, then headed back to join his bandmates.

Meanwhile, Charlie ordered another drink and wipes the tears out of his own eyes. His drink is served the moment the band starts playing again – specifically “All of Me”.

Charlie sips on his cocktail and focuses on the bassist who seemed more content now, well aware of the muse he was playing for.

They would probably both be okay in the long run. As long as they both had music in their heart.

The occasional drink didn’t hurt, either.

Failure Notice

Mr. Valentine liked to grade essays at his neighborhood Panera a couple of evenings each week. He found a certain warm, cozy comfort there, plus he could eat healthy, while drinking copious amounts of coffee. The only drawback was that every now and then, he would run into people he knew, when paradoxically, all he wanted was solitude. Sure, he could have stayed home, but he had trouble staying focused at home. His air pods kept most people at bay, but some people can’t take a hint.

Every now and then, he would encounter people he knew – fellow teachers, as well as students, both past and present.  More often than not, there was an implied mutual ignore between them. Sometimes, he would engage in small talk. Sometimes, he struggled to pinpoint when he had the student. One year? Five years? With each passing year, time became more fluid. And with almost 20 years under his belt, time became a rapid blur. 

Sometimes, he recognized a former student the moment he was approached. Sometimes, he didn’t recognize them at all. But nothing could prepare him for a particular encounter one frigid January evening (the kind that made leaving the house a tough decision).

As he slogged through excruciating final exam essays, a rather ragged individual approached him. He not only looked homeless, but like a homeless person addicted to meth. He wasn’t one to assume, but this one seemed to be a no doubter.

 The man didn’t speak, but instead just hovered over him. Mr. Valentine hoped that if he ignored him long enough, he would go away, as was usually the case. It wasn’t unusual for individuals like this to linger at this particular Panera from time to time. Eventually, they would leave him alone once it was clear he wasn’t going to pay them a modicum of attention. Or, they would be politely asked to leave by the staff, at which point they would comply without further incident. This man clearly wasn’t taking a hint. And it didn’t seem like he was going to be asked to leave anytime soon.  

“Mr. Valentine?”

 Though it wouldn’t have surprised him that some of his students turned out like this, he had yet to encounter one – at least, not to his knowledge. He didn’t recognize this man whatsoever…but the man certainly seemed to recognize him.

 “Mr. Valentine, right?” the man persisted.

 “Yes.”

  “It’s me. Cody Robinson.”

 A name that has lived in infamy. Teachers tend to remember two types of students the most: the best students…and the worst. Cody Robinson was by far the worst. And the biggest asshole Mr. Valentine had ever encountered in his 20 years of teaching. Judging from his appearance, the years had not turned his fortunes around. Somehow, this outcome was worse than he would have guessed – though that was debatable. He had him pegged for prison.

Mr. Valentine’s usual response when he encountered a former student that he couldn’t quite recognize was to ask what he had been up to, buying him some time while he tried to decipher the identity of his former pupil. He became proficient at carrying on a conversation in a manner with a student he didn’t remember, let alone recognize until a vague recollection would emerge in his mind, as though the student were being regenerated out of the deep recesses of his memory bank. Sometimes, he would still draw a blank…but certainly not in this instance.

Just looking at Cody’s current condition – tattered clothing, rotting teeth, a horrible stench – he knew asking how he was doing wouldn’t suffice in this context. The answer was clear: he was doing awful. 

“I need your help,” Cody pleaded.

If only he had asked 10 years ago…

“Yeah? How so?” Mr. Valentine responded with a hint of irritation, lined with guilt for feeling this way. Of course, he already knew the answer before Cody even said it:

 “I am trying to get back on my feet. But I’m homeless. My family kicked me out and I got no one.”

Mr. Valentine was never one to help a panhandler. He made it a point to never be rude to them, but he usually went out of his way to ignore them. This was the first time he was approached by one he knew.  

“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Valentine said earnestly.

He truly was.

“But can you help?”

Mr. Valentine hesitated before responding.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he said coldly.

He couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming (and sadly uncharacteristic) urge to help him. He thought long and hard. After all, it was the humane thing to do – especially when you personally knew the person begging for help.

And then he remembered: He was the reason Cody didn’t graduate. He needed the credit, but he came up just short. It wasn’t uncommon for Mr. Valentine to pass a kid who felt just short of the goal line. Cody fell within the parameters of getting a mercy pass – or, at least some sort of credit recovery plan. But he had been such an asshole all year long, failure was the only option. In fact, the only time Mr. Valentine ever had to be disciplined was when he called the kid not an asshole – but a dick. In the end, he received a slap on the wrist and the reassurance that he had simply said everything that everyone else was already thinking. Fortunately, it was expunged from his file after a year with a warning that if it happened again, there would be consequences.  

Cody certainly didn’t help himself in any way – academically, or character wise. In the end, he had no one else to blame. He failed himself. And it wasn’t just Mr. Valentine’s class he failed. He had failed several classes and was coming up just short of the finish line. It all came down to Mr. Valentine’s English class. So how could he not feel partially responsible for this tragedy standing in front of him?

Much to his surprise, Mr. Valentine was suddenly overcome by a sudden urge to help his former pupil. But then immediately reminded himself of what a fucking asshole he was.

 But he was just a kid.

 He was hopeful Cody would just leave him alone. Then again, he could always leave instead.  Cody continued to linger showing no sign of surrendering.

“Please? Mr. Valentine. Please. I need your help.”

  Two employees finally approached, demanding that Cody leave. They apologized to Mr. Valentine as Cody headed back into the cold January night. He then lingered in front of the window where Mr. Valentine was sitting. He was looking at him with meth-addicted puppy dog eyes. And then he disappeared until seconds later, he was standing in front of him again.

 Unable to bear it any longer and not wanting to see Cody sent back out into the cold, Mr. Valentine gathered his belongings and headed out into the night. Halfway do his car, he froze in his tracks and almost went back inside. He could at least give him a few bucks. But as it turned out, it was a fleeting thought. He kept walking until he got into his car, before heading home to his warm, empty apartment.

He couldn’t sleep that night, consumed by the guilt of turning his back on someone who not only needed help now, but could have used his help way back then. When Cody was just a kid with a troubled home life, but still capable of being molded.

To help assuage his guilt, Mr. Valentine vowed to help Cody if he ever ran into him again.

But he never did.

In fact, a few years later, he found out that Cody had died of a heroin overdose. Would any amount of money have helped him kick his addictions?

Unlikely.

 But at least he would have known someone cared. If even for one small moment. And sometimes that is more than enough.      

Stocking Stuffer

Emily took Jimmy to Christmas Eve mass – not out of obligation to any faith (she had none), but in honor of her husband (who did). Though she never admitted it, Emily actually enjoyed going to church on Christmas – if only for the music. Despite her stance on religion, how could she not be moved? This year, one song in particular stirred her in a totally unexpected way she hadn’t ever felt before: “O Come All Ye Faithful.”  She was overcome by the pure beauty of it and the hope it promised. Though it wasn’t a “come to Jesus” moment, it was as close to having a spiritual encounter that she could remember in years. It was also James’s favorite Christmas song.  

After church, they stopped for Chinese carry out – another tradition. They saved their fortune cookies for last, of course.

Jimmy read his out loud: “May the ghosts of your ancestors be the guiding light in your life,”

“Awww, that’s nice,” Emily said.

“What are ancestors?” Jimmy asked.

“Your relatives that have come before you.”

“Like daddy?”

“More like people from previous generations.”

“What are generations?”

“Like hundreds of years ago.”

“What does your fortune say, Mommy?”

It was a half-off coupon for her next meal. They all laughed – just the fortune they all needed. 

At least it wasn’t a blank fortune like James got long ago. Though they made light of it, James’s family history certainly gave them pause.

“What does that mean?!” 

“Probably exactly what it says,” James assured her. “Nothing.”

She could tell it was bothering him more than he was letting on, but then he ate his cookie and it all seemed forgotten.

Before bed, Emily read The Night Before Christmas to Jimmy – an annual tradition, using James’s childhood copy. Emily was exhausted, but knew the real work would begin after Jimmy was asleep – the stealthy placement of Christmas presents under the tree. James gladly used to do this part, allowing her to go straight to sleep. She handled the wrapping. Even though James liked to help with that, he was forbidden. His wrapping was God-awful.

“There was no way that Santa – or his Elves – could possibly wrap that poorly,” she teased him.

James agreed.

“Okay, mister,” Emily said to Jimmy. “Time for bed. Santa will be here before you know it.”

Just as they started heading upstairs for bed, Jimmy stopped in his tracks:

“Aren’t we forgetting something?”

“What, sweetheart?”

“A note for Santa. And cookies! And carrots for his reindeer!”

“Oh my gosh, how could we forget?”

“I didn’t. You did.”

She laughed.

“Well, excuuuse me!” she retorted.

He then grabbed a few cookies and set them on a plate, along with a glass of milk.

“And we need to leave a note.”

She grabbed some paper and a pen.

“Okay, you dictate and I will write.”

“What’s dicktaste?”

“Dictate! You speak. I write.”

“Oh. Ok.”

She tried to stifle her laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”   

 “Actually, how about you write it. I will help you spell if you need help.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Don’t you want to make Santa proud of you? And Daddy?”

That did the trick. She would milk that motivational tool for as long as she could. When it was all said and done, the letter read as follows:

 “Dear Santa. I know you can’t bring my daddy back. But I know you would if you could. Thank you for whatever presents you give me.  Love, Jimmy.”

She had to try so hard to keep from crying. They headed upstairs for bed.

“Goodnight, my sweet little elf!” Emily said, after tucking him in and saying his prayers.

“I’m not an elf.”

“You’re my elf.”

“You’re an elf.”

“Then that makes two elves.”

She kissed him gently on the forehead.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

She waited until he joined the land of sugar plum fairies, then headed off to gather the presents and place them under the tree. She then filled Jimmy’s stocking, which she placed alongside her and James’s empty ones. She considered filling her stocking, because she knew Jimmy would have questions as to why Santa didn’t fill hers, but she then ultimately decided that the presence of James’s empty one would somehow make it worse. This was the type of analysis she was going to have to do with just about every decision in the weeks, months, and probably years to come.

She headed to bed, as a steady snow began to fall, hoping she could get some sleep, because of course Jimmy would be up bright and early. Normally, she would have preferred that he slept in, but if he didn’t wake up bright and early and excited for Christmas, then she would be deeply concerned.

All she wanted for Christmas was for her son to be happy. For at least one day.  As memories of Christmases past danced in her heads, she realized that sleep was evasive. She settled on one Christmas in particular. Their one and only Christmas in New York. Their first Christmas together.

“Christmas in New York?” she said when James first suggested it.  “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

He was genuinely shocked, if only because he didn’t think she would give up a Christmas with her parents.

“What about your parents?”

“Hell no. They’re not coming with us,” Emily snapped.

“No,” he laughed. “I mean, are you willing to miss Christmas with them?”

“Yeah. For sure.”

 “Are you prepared for one of your mom’s guilt trips?”

“She’ll get over it. Are you trying to get me to change my mind?”

“Of course not.”

She threw herself at him and gave him an enormous hug.

“We can finally trace Holden’s footsteps!” James proclaimed.

And so, they did. It was as magical a Christmas setting either one had ever imagined. As directed by Nora Ephron. It was their first trip. Their relationship was still in its infancy, but they had long since reached the point where they were in a comfortable rhythm with one another, wildly turned on, and oh so madly and deeply in love.

Is there a more magical time than Christmas to be in love?

In the days leading up to the trip, she tried to suppress any suspicions she had that he had an ulterior motive for the trip. A proposal. She figured it was way too soon, right?

By the same token, she would have said “yes” in a heartbeat if he popped the question. She had to keep reminding herself not to be disappointed if he didn’t. Even if he wanted to, he probably knew it was much too soon.

At each stop along their magical Holden tour, she kept thinking to herself that the moment had come! Beginning with Grand Central Station, followed by the American Museum of Natural History, Radio City Music Hall, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

She would later turn her photos into an award-winning series that documented the locations from the book, along with corresponding quotes from the novel.

 As they approached the lagoon in Central Park, James exclaimed like only a diehard Catcher fan could do:

 “Ducks!”

They walked past the zoo and carousel, at which point James recited one of their favorite passages from memory.

“‘I felt so damn happy all of sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around. I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy… God, I wish you could’ve been there.’”

“You memorized all that?”

“Impressed?”

“Yeah! I suck at memorizing anything.”

“If I ever have children, I want to bring them here,” James said.

That would be nice,” Emily said, coyly.

“In the meantime, would you like to ride with me?”
 

“Sure!”

And so they did.

There was one last stop on their tour and therefore one more chance to propose. What was a more fitting spot than the Rockefeller Center Skating Rink?  Neither one of them had ever ice skated before, but they were determined to give it a whirl. As it turned out, most of the time on the rink was spent either keeping one another upright…or, helping one another up. And they had never laughed harder in their lives. At one point, after she fell, he helped her back up, then stayed on one knee for a bit. She felt her heart stop, but it wouldn’t be until the following summer that he finally did pop the question. Up north at the Mission Point Lighthouse, overlooking Lake Michigan. She wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

It wasn’t until the night after their post-coital engagement sex, while their bodies lay intertwined in bed, that she confessed how she was anticipating the proposal on their trip to New York.

“Oh yeah?” James asked. “And what would you have done if I did?”

 “I would have said yes.”        

“Well, for the record, I did consider it.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because I honestly thought you would think it was too early. So, I resisted with all my might. I almost caved a couple of times.”

“When?”

“Ice skating.”

She knew exactly when before he even said it.

“You fell. And I got on one knee and came so close to asking.”

“Did you have a ring?”

“Of course!”

Her heart skipped a beat.

Of course.

“Well, I’m glad you did it when you did. It was perfect.”

“Me, too. And yes, it was.”

It truly was.

And it was on this note that Emily finally drifted off to sleep, with visions of sugar plum fairies dancing in her head.

Jimmy woke her up well before six just as he normally did and she couldn’t have been happier.

 “Merry Christmas,” Emily said.

“Merry Christmas!” Jimmy said back. “And eww, your breath stinks.”

“Yours too, mister!”

“Can we go downstairs now?” Jimmy asked.
“Sure.”

She slowly climbed out of bed and looked out the window. A fresh blanket of snow had covered the world. They headed downstairs. Jimmy had the wide-eyed glee that only Christmas morning can bring. If only she could bottle this moment up and return to it when needed. When they reached the bottom of the steps, one thing was clear:

Santa had indeed come.

Emily reveled in the holly jolly normalcy of it all. In that moment, the piercing void that both Emily and Jimmy felt in their hearts was – not replaced – but dulled. If only for a moment. However, fleeting.

Jimmy surveyed his gifts with gleeful excitement, but then like a needle to a balloon, or screeching across a record:

“He didn’t eat his cookies!”

Fuck!

How did she forget to hide them! And how was she going to get out of this one? Of course, James not only wouldn’t have forgotten, but he always went the extra mile to leave a few crumbs, or even a bite behind for added effect. He also usually left a few strands of red fabric off of the Christmas tree skirt on the carpet and dangled some on the side of the fireplace to create the illusion that that Santa snagged his suit.

One year, he left one carrot behind because one of the reindeer apparently – was it Blitzen? – didn’t like carrots anymore and only ate cookies.

How could she possibly keep up?

“And he left no note, either!” Jimmy bemoaned.

Double fuck!

Once again, she reverted to spin control.

“He must have been running behind and didn’t have time! Plus, he gets so many cookies! I’m sure he isn’t starving. Maybe Mrs. Claus has him on a diet.”

That seemed to do the trick. A year from now, she had a feeling she would have to become craftier. Fortunately, he wasn’t going to dwell on it – not with all those presents awaiting him under the tree. Fortunately, the crisis was quickly averted.

She wouldn’t do what her mother did, which was feel guilty about lying about the whole Santa thing and flat out admitting there was no such thing the first time she even began to question it.

Emily put on the Merry Christmas Johnny Mathis album. A Christmas morning tradition in both her and James’s family. Nothing felt more quintessential Christmas to them than that.

Jimmy noticed his stuffed stocking. Next to his parents’ empty ones.

“Why didn’t Santa put anything in your stocking?”

Perhaps she should have filled hers after all.  After all, why wouldn’t Santa still come for her? She just figured that seeing James’s lonely, empty stocking would somehow make it worse.

“Maybe Santa decided that only kids should get gifts this year?”

“That isn’t very fair,” he said.

“Go ahead and start opening your gifts!”

After Jimmy opened up his stocking stuffers, he dug his hand into his mother’s. Much to both of their surprise:

“Wait. Santa did leave you something!”

Emily didn’t believe him until he pulled out a small, wrapped present from her stocking. A forgotten gift from last year. It was the only explanation, but she would stick to Jimmy’s Santa theory.

“Open it, mommy!” he said, handing it to her.

So, she did. It was a pair of earrings. From Kohl’s. Nothing fancy. Which was perfect. She didn’t like fancy. And James knew that and respected that. Despite the simplicity of Kohl’s, she was admittedly the hardest person on earth to shop for. How many gifts did she make James return over the years? Most of them, in fact. And he bought her a lot of gifts. He learned early on to always save the receipts. He must have been frustrated because he loved giving gifts – far more than receiving them, in fact. And even though his success rate was low, he never gave up. Every now and then, he would somehow manage to strike gold.

As she looked at the earrings, the absolute no-frills normalcy of this discovery filled her with unexpected joy.  

A true Christmas miracle.

She began to cry when it struck her that this was the last gift she would ever receive from him. Then again, she thought that about the anniversary gift she found, too. And the flowers. Perhaps she would continue to receive gifts.

“Why are you crying, mommy?”

“Because I’m so happy!”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because I didn’t think Santa would remember me.”

“He must know you are sad and miss daddy.”

“Yeah…”

“Put them on!” Jimmy said.

And so, she did. 

“Very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

As Johnny Mathis crooned “I’ll be Home for Christmas”, she tried not to cry.

I’ll be home for Christmas
You can plan on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents by the tree

Christmas eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I’ll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams

I’ll be home for Christmas
You can plan on me
Please have some snow and mistletoe
And presents by the tree

Christmas eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I’ll be home for Christmas

If only in my dreams

I’ll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams.

As much as she wanted to hold it together for Jimmy, she couldn’t help but feel haunted by the ghosts of Christmas past.  

Jimmy stopped in the middle of opening a gift.

“Mommy?”

“I’m okay.”

He set his gift down and hugged her. Nobody said anything, letting the music wash over them. Someday, Jimmy would play this album with his family on Christmas morning. Would he remember this moment? She hoped so. But would he remember it in a warm, nostalgic way? In a sad, forlorn way? Or, would he never remember at all?

Later, they dined on ham and a smorgasbord of sides. After dinner, they played Clue – a gift from Santa – then watched Miracle on 34th Street while eating Christmas cookies.

 And all was right with the world. If even for a moment.

Take Me With You

They were in that stage of a breakup where they still did things together, even though the end of the road was in sight.

 A dead end.    

He decided to take a much-needed one-day get away to Lake Michigan, hoping to clear his head in the crisp, autumn air.

The threat of rain did not deter him. In fact, it was fitting in a poetic sort of way. Every other time they had come here had been bright sunny.

The night before his trip, he went to bed in the guest room, as he done for the past couple of months. Once again, his snores did him in.

When his alarm went off the next morning, he noticed a note on his bedside table with one sentence:

Take me with you.

As much as he needed to take this trip alone, he couldn’t possibly say no. He didn’t want to break her heart any more than he already had. He would have plenty of time to take a solo trip.

This trip would be their eulogy. An epilogue at the end of bittersweet love story.

As he stared at the note, he imagined her standing in the door way as he slept, hoping he would wake up, before leaving the note, then retreating to the bed that they once shared.

 How many nights did he pretend to be asleep, knowing that she stood there, seeking reconciliation and comfort?

When there was a still a chance to make things right.

Like that time she put her hand on his back when it was turned from her.  

And he pretended to keep sleeping, trying to restore their shared promise of forever. A promise that no not quite dead, was still on life support.

Did she know he was awake?

How many times did he ignore her presence? Would things have turned out any differently if he didn’t? He didn’t initially ignore her. Usually, it would lead to regrettable sex. Not because it wasn’t good, but rather the act itself only delayed the inevitable, giving false hope.? Deep down, he knew it was too late. So why prolong the inevitable?

He had already hurt her enough. It was bad enough they were both stuck co-habitating for a few more weeks until he could move into his new place.

He still couldn’t help but wonder to himself: what if it wouldn’t have been false hope? What if they somehow could have fixed things? He was still living there, at all.

Of course, he was still living there because his new place wouldn’t be available for a couple more weeks. At which point, her new roommate moved in.

It seemed just like yesterday that they were moving in here.

Their fresh start they both so needed.

A place to call their own.

When the embraced in the kitchen the day they took possession of the placed. He cried. Because for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was home again.

Now, they were nothing more than roommates. And no longer soul mates. Going through the motions until he could finally move out.

He reminded himself that they never officially broke up. But what else could this possibly be? He used to think that a break-up was both sudden and finite. He knew better now.

He reminded himself that they technically never officially broke up. Neither could pinpoint the exact moment it was truly over. Yet, they both knew. What else could it be?

Their denial ensured a long, prolonged death.          

Take me with you.

Day trips and weekend getaways were a significant part of their relationship. Neither had enjoyed traveling with someone else as much as they did with one another.

But right now, what he needed more than anything was to travel solo – to the town they used to dream about owning a summer cottage together someday.  

Take me with you.      

They would make one lasting memory.

Following months of unhappy ones.

They would make this memory one that they could hold on to that existed outside of the context their sad timeline.

A bittersweet coda, with no turning back. Because they were too stubborn to try.

Despite the miserable weather, they would make the most out of it.

Just like they used to do. When being together was all that mattered.

When they dreamed of one day owning a summer cottage on Lake Michigan.

As they drove, they listened to their “infinite playlist”, which had been finite for quite some time now. Neither one remembered when the last time a song was added, let alone what song it was.  

This would be the last time either one of them would listen to it.

But neither one of them would delete it, either.

Take me with you.      

When they arrived, they headed straight to mostly empty beach – especially in comparison with the packed beaches they were used to.

They stared out at the open water enveloped in a foreboding fog, mixed with a misty drizzle, and a whirling, whipping wind.

The lack of sun gave the illusion of a world of black and white like one of old French films they used to fall asleep to together.

Even the red lighthouse jutting out in the distance was bleached out like a ghostly figure shrouded in fog, as violent waves splashed against it.

Though neither did anything about it, they both secretly longed to hold one another,

as both shelter from the cold, and a last chance to salvage themselves, before they faded forever into the mist.

Take me with you.

Sometimes, things are too late, even when you don’t want it to be.

At least they would have one last memory to keep in their pocket.

A welcome respite from arguing and the resulting lingering sadness.

A memory as sweet and beautiful as their first, but steeped in melancholy.

One last memory to keep in their pocket.      

Like the final note she left for him:

Take me with you.

He moved out as planned a few weeks later.

They stayed in touch, here and there, but over time, even that ended.

In truth, it was too painful.

They eventually moved on as best they could.

But the ghost of their life would stay with them.

He held on to her note for the rest of his days.

A promise fulfilled.

Just not in the way they had promised once upon a time.

As these things so often go.

Wrapper

“What is this?” Sara said, holding up what looked like a torn, gold piece of a wrapper in front of Joe’s face.

“Looks like a wrapper to me.”

“I found it in your pocket when I was doing laundry,” Sara said.

“Sorry. At least it wasn’t Kleenex this time.”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m sorry,” Joe said, confused. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 “Don’t lie to me.”

“What is this all about?”

“It’s a condom wrapper.”

“It’s a candy wrapper!”

“Bullshit.”

“I can prove it!”

 “How?”

  And then he remembered. Haribo gummy bears. With golden packaging! He ate some just the other day.  

 “I ate a package of gummy bears the other day.”

“You and your damn candy.”

“I’ll get another bag and you will see it’s the same color!”

“How would that prove that it’s not a condom?”

There was only way to prove it.

Despite never giving her reason any reason not to trust him, she was always suspecting of something he never did.  

The great irony of always being accused of crimes he didn’t commit, of course, is that Joe took great pride by living life by a strong moral code. He didn’t have an ego about it. It was just how he was wired. But for some reason, she thought his holier than thou attitude was just an act. But it wasn’t an act. Or, an attitude.  Pure and simple, Joe was a devoted family man, only drank for social occasions (and never too much), always said no to drugs and most importantly, never cheated on his wife. In fact, his only vice was a voracious sweet tooth, but otherwise ate clean and healthy. And his only vice was the very thing that nearly did him in.

  And now here he was, about to dig through trash to prove his innocence.

He opened up the trash cupboard, before realizing he had already taken the trash outside. Which would mean it would be in his building’s dumpster. At least trash pick-up wasn’t until tomorrow.

He headed outside and proceeded to go through his apartment building’s dumpster. Was he really going to do this?

Yes.

At least it was cold enough to keep things from stinking too much.

Through process of elimination based on bag type and color, he narrowed it down to three likely candidates before finally finding the right one. He immediately began sorting through it until lo and behold: Eureka! He struck gold (wrapper)!

He quickly threw his mess back into the dumpster, then raced back inside to prove his innocence, like the prince with Cinderella’s shoe. 

The pieces were a perfect match. He was acquitted and praised for his efforts to prove his innocence in order to save their marriage.

 That is how much it meant to him.

Turn the Light Off

“Oh, can you turn the light off?” she asked Billy, after they climbed into bed.

“No.”

She certainly didn’t expect that answer.

It seemed like a fair enough request.

Was he joking?

Of course, she didn’t really know him as much as she might have thought. This was only their third date. But he certainly didn’t strike her as much of a jokester. He had a sense of humor. But not like that.

“Seriously?” she finally asked.

“Yeah. I am.”

Up until then, she was excited to have finally found someone who didn’t immediately come into her life waving a red flag. But she also knew that sometimes, the flags are kept folded out of sight, before they gradually unfold themselves.

It was always only a matter of time. She preferred the ones who displayed their crimson flags right away, as not to waste too much of her time.

In short, the endless stream of disappointment that had been her dating life was just so…exhausting. She had grown tired of it.

But she had a feeling that Billy would somehow be…different.

She was the first to admit that she wasn’t perfect herself.

She had plenty of red flags of her own. She was by no means perfect. She was the first to admit that.

But how early did she reveal her warts? She really wasn’t sure. She was the one who usually did the dumping.

The trick was finding someone who could not only tolerate your flaws, but barely even notice them…if at all.

Flaws were one thing, of course. Red flags were often another. Though, there was often an overlap.

 She wasn’t naïve to think that Billy was perfect.  Nobody was. But he certainly seemed like an upgrade above the endless stream of other suitors.

She certainly didn’t expect…this.

Like most of her date, she met him on a dating site. Unlike so many guys, he didn’t come on too strong. In fact, it seemed there was no hint of flirtation at all in their initial text exchanges. He just seem genuinely interested in what she had to say, which was a rarity. At least, in her experience. She also really loved enjoying what he had to say. Of course, it helped that she found him very handsome, though if  a guy was interesting, or funny, or creative enough, she could get past looks…to an extent.

Aside from the general lack of flirtation, there was also the absence of the superficial “getting to know you” stuff. The stuff that felt more like a job interview. With Billy, they both started with the very core of one another’s essence and allowed the superficial stuff to reveal itself organically, rather than a stilted, forced way.

They had prolonged,, stream-of-consciousness tangential conversations across the spectrum that seemed to flow with seamless transition from topic-to-topic. This more than made up for the lack of flirting, too. In fact, the way she saw it, their deep conversations were flirting. And she was excited to see how it would transpire in the real world.

As it turned out, very well.

After nearly two weeks of intense texting – the kind that makes your fingers and wrists sore – she was surprised that he hadn’t actually asked to take her out yet. But she would remain patient.

And sure enough, he finally came around to ask her to meet for coffee.

Most guys asked for a drink.

Naturally, she analyzed this to death:  

Did he not drink, or was this part of some grand gentlemanly strategy?

She tried not to overthink it. At the end of the day, she was certain he would turn out to be a creep and/or jerk like all the others. In fact, she was so tired of it, she nearly deleted her dating apps entirely, on the heels of so many first (i.e. last) dates and bad experiences. But like every gambler, she couldn’t help but think that just maybe, next time, she would get lucky and hit the jackpot.

And then came along Billy.

In fact, she felt so confident, she decided to respond to his invite for coffee with a request of her own:

“How about a drink?”

 “Even better!’

She usually wasn’t this assertive. But it was something she had been working on.

Drinks soon became dinner plans.

Their first date went beyond well, ending with a cherry on top in the form of a sweet kiss on the side of her mouth        

Along with the promise of a second date (which was pretty much a given from the start of their date).

On their second date, they made out, but didn’t go all the way.

Later that night, she invited him into her bedroom.   

“Oh, can you turn the light off?.”

“No.”

“Please?” she asked.

If he wasn’t joking, she was hoping to diffuse the situation.

“I said no.”

 She suddenly regretted inviting him into his bed. Because if this was his idea of a joke, it had quickly worn out its welcome. And it wasn’t a joke, then he was planting his red flag at the worst possible time.

Perhaps she could just tell him she wanted to go to sleep. She was hopeful he would respect that.

Was he really going to let such a simple matter get in the way of what had otherwise been a spectacular evening? On the heels of two other amazing dates.

She would give him one more chance to right this ship – if it wasn’t already too late.

“Why not?” she finally asked, forcing the issue.

“I like to see everything.”

“But I’m really self-conscious,” she countered, once again exercising newfound assertiveness. “But I do have a night-light!”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But the light has to stay on.”

Okay, now she was beginning to get creeped out.

What kind of guy would risk not getting laid over a stubborn refusal to keep a fucking light on?

This guy apparently.

She thought about asking him to explain his intentions, but her growing concerns about his stability made her not want to make a bad situation potentially worse.

“Maybe we should just go to sleep.”

“Seriously, because of a stupid light?” he asked, offended.

“I should be asking you the same question!”

  “You are so beautiful. And I want to be able to see you.”

Perhaps had it been his room, it would be different. But this was her room. Her rules.

Lights out, put out.

No lights out, no put out.

But he wouldn’t back down, showering her with compliments about how beautiful she was and how she deserved to be “both seen by the light and bathed by the light.”

This is the exact same sort of bullshit men say when they are trying to get what they want. Only, the disconnect here was that she was already willing and ready to let him have it.  

 Was.

So, what gives?

At this point, it no longer mattered.

Light on, or light off, it was too late.

“I think you need to go,” she finally declared.

“Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across in such a bad light.”

Was she jumping the gun?                 

Should she give him a second chance?

After all, he really did seem like a great guy.

Was she really going to throw it all way over something as trivial as this?

She should be asking him.

Deep down, she knew she could never recover from this. She couldn’t help but feel…violated.

Perhaps she would give him another chance.

But just not tonight.

Maybe it was time to give up on dating altogether.

She was tired of all the disappointment and all the too-good-to-be-trues.    

At first, it seemed as though he was going to refuse to leave, but then he finally got out of bed.

“I had a really wonderful time,” he said with no trace of irony or cynicism.

“Me, too…until, well to be honest, this whole light thing is really weird.”

“Do you want to know the truth?”

Oh boy.

“Of course.”

She braced herself for what she assumed was going to be a bullshit answer.

And the answer she got threw her through a major loop.

“I wouldn’t normally admit to this. At least not this early on. But I like you. A lot. And, well…”

She waited on pins and needles.

“I’m afraid of the dark.”

She froze, unable to begin to even process this.

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

She wasn’t sure what was worse: if this was truth…or a lie?

He looked so pathetic and vulnerable that she couldn’t fathom it being anything other than the truth. So much so, that she considered inviting him to stay.

And who was she to judge, anyway? She still didn’t let her limbs dangle her bed, out of fear that a monster would eat them. And truth be told, she was always a little bit afraid of the dark, which was a secondary reason for having a night light.

Nobody is without quirks and flaws, beneath their shiny veneer.

But sometimes, you just have to know when to fold ‘em.

He knew it. And she knew it.

“Guess I’ll get going,” he finally conceded. “Again, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.”

He then headed out the door with his tail between his legs.

Into the dark of night.

 As she lay in bed, she regretted not letting him stay. If only to talk. Or, maybe watch a movie. He really didn’t do anything wrong, especially after his explanation.

Again, she could always give him a second chance.

Another date.

But there wouldn’t be.

There rarely ever was.

She took care of herself, then drifted off to sleep.

The Pig

The Pig was born chubby.

The Pig was an even chubbier toddler.

And then a fat kid.

And even fatter adult.

The Pig never had an issue with it. It was everyone else who did.

From the time she started school, she was taunted and jeered.

Out loud.

To her face.

And in whispers behind her back.

Somehow, the whispers were always worse.

Like daggers.

She was nicknamed ‘The Pig’ in the third grade.

Not just ‘Pig’.

But ‘The Pig’.

It wasn’t long before more knew her by her nickname than her actual name

But she learned to live with it, much like someone learns to live with illness, or a disability. She was simply too nice to do anything about it.

It wasn’t so much that their insults bounced right off her plus-sized body, as it was that she could quickly get back up on her feet.

But she never seemed to show it outwardly.

To reiterate, she wasn’t ashamed of how she looked. Not one tiny bit. Nor, was she naive about she looked.

Though the jaunts hurt, the nickname never seemed to phase her. After all, she liked pigs. They were her favorite animal from the time she was a baby. In fact, it was her first word,.

Pigs were sweet and innocent creatures. Intelligent and loving.

  So where was the insult?

But deep down, she knew it was.

Why couldn’t they be her friend, rather than choosing not to be?

She always thought she would be a good friend to have

Maybe someday, she would be able to prove it.

 So she would continue to wait patiently.

Her nickname followed her into middle school, along with all the other insults, despite the addition of new peers.

Puberty came as expected. Neither too early, nor too late.

But maturity sadly did not follow suit as far as her classmates were concerned. The taunts remained, as did her weight. In fact, her weight only continued to go up. And it wasn’t that she didn’t try. She ate mostly healthy and the only time she overly indulged were on the particular rough days. Which were many.

The bullying eased up in high school, but her nickname lived on. Fortunately, she finally made a couple of friends. Social misfits like her. They never called her The Pig. Sophomore year, she was even asked to a dance. But just as friends, of course. It didn’t stop her from having a crush on him. He would later come out as gay.

As high school dragged on it, so did her nickname.,

It wasn’t until her senior year that she decided to finally do something about it. But what? She was never a vindictive person, so it wouldn’t be too mean-spirited. But she hoped whatever it was would be just as effective.

And then it finally came to her. So simple, but hopefully effective.

It would happen at the upcoming Halloween-themed Homecoming dance.

She would arrive at the dance, dressed as a pig.

She never waivered from her commitment to get the last laugh.

And when she finally did, nobody knew what to say.

An awkward tension filled the air the rest of the night.

Nobody ever called her The Pig after that night.

Her only regret was that she didn’t do think of this years before.

Better late than never, she supposed.

It was the best night of Peggy Smith’s life.

One of Your Stories

They matched on a dating app, but in reality met in real life about 10 years ago. They had been social media friends ever since with the occasional interaction in the form of comments, but nevr sliding into DM territory. 

Once they matched, it quickly became one of those “oh, hey, I guess we should go on a date!” situations. An unwritten rule of the digital dating world. When drowning in horny strangers vying for your attention, there is a rather comforting feeling of familiarity lacking from matches with strangers. Of course, for most of those years, he had been married so the idea of dating anybody else would have been a huge stretch. In fact, Liz was rather surprised he was back on the market. Pleasantly surprised even (or, so he hoped).

Of course, he entered the dating market just in time for Covid, so the pickings were pretty slim. He figured if someone was desperate enough to date during Covid (like himself), then it might be worth a shot. If he recalled correctly, he wasn’t exactly impressed with her personality. She had sort of a pompous air about her, which wasn’t a good sign. But it was a long time ago. And people change. Sometimes.

They quickly agreed to go out the following weekend. She proposed a picnic in the park, which would have been great if it weren’t for the fact that it was going to be a 43-degree spring day. It was, after all, March in Michigan. But he would suck it up and dress accordingly.

His only qualm as her suggestion they get carry out from the fanciest restaurant in town. He agreed to it, but then immediately regretted it.

He was fine with the picnic portion, despite the forecast. His only issue was the choice of restaurant. For one thing, he had never been there before, but had always wanted to go. He would have preferred his first time be a dine-in experience. Secondly, this was the kind of restaurant you go to for a special occasion. Like Valentine’s Day, or an anniversary.

Certainly not a first date.

And certainly not in a park when it’s that cold.

He figured there was no turning back at this point, so he would he would just go with the flow. Something he had been trying to make more of a habit. This was a perfect early test.

He had agreed to place the order. She would bring the wine and dessert. He received her order: duck.

Duck!

He tried not to judge. But how could he not?

As he perused the menu, most of the offerings might as well have been in a foreign language. And the ones he did understand had little appeal to him. So, he settled on a burger, which didn’t exactly pair with well duck. But fuck it.

As the day dragged on, his reservations about the whole situation really ate at him. Nothing sat right with him.

He had also just entered a “you only live once/live in the moment” phase, so he stuck to the game plan.

But as the day wore on, it continued to eat at him. And then he sent her a simple text.

“Hi. Would you be okay if we scale back a bit on the dinner front?”

Quite some time passed before she replied back. He tried not to read too much into it. Perhaps she was one of those people who didn’t check her phone constantly.

“Why?”

“Just wondering if we could do something a little less expensive.”

“Are you kidding me?

“Just to scale back a bit. I’m not saying we still can’t do something nice – just not that nice.”  

As he thought about how to respond, his phone rang.  

“Hello?”

“I can’t believe this.”

“I’m sorry. I—”

“I bought a dessert and a wine to pair with my duck!”

“It’s just that, I have never eaten there before. And I would prefer my first time be in person. And maybe not for a first date. Besides, it’s so cold—”

“In other words…I’m not good enough.”

 “No. That isn’t it at all. And it’s not like I suggested Applebee’s. We can still do something nice. Just not…that.

In truth, he would have been totally fine with Applebee’s.

“My time is very precious and limited. I am very selective with who I speak to, and especially who I go out with. And right now, you are wasting my time.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t know if I even want to see you now.”

“I understand.”

He really didn’t.

“Look. Let’s start over,” he offered, but knowing deep down it was too late.

“I don’t know if we can.”

“I truly was excited for our date. And honestly, I don’t really care where we eat. I’m just trying to be more careful with my money.”

“Again, you don’t think I’m worthy.”

“No! That’s not it.”

“Again, you are wasting my time.”

“I am not trying to waste your time. We can still stick to our plan.”

“Too late, buster.”

Buster?!

“Because of the fact we are having this very conversation.”

“We can still right this ship.”

“Don’t even bother.”

“What if we tried it another time? We can still do a picnic, but maybe on a warmer day.”

“No. I already invested too much in to this relationship. It clearly wasn’t meant to be.”

“Okay, well take care.”

She had already hung up.

Did this really just happen?  

In typical fashion, he couldn’t help but feel like a jerk. That he screwed something potentially beautiful up.

He was immediately searching for ways to make things right, rather than just moving on. He should have known better.

As he struggled to process everything, he received one final communication from her a few minutes later:  

“Please don’t turn this into one of your stories.”

Left Swipe

i.

“Shit!” he said to himself, as he lay on the couch alongside his faithful terrier.

He fumbled with his phone, trying to undo his costly error.

But he knew better.

He was fucked.

He didn’t pay for the premium service. Which meant nothing could be done. This was reason enough to pay premium.

Lesson learned.

He had been in the midst of a prolonged left swipe streak. When you don’t pay premium, you only get so many allotted right swipes a day. He was judicious. He had to be.

On auto-pilot, he accidentally swiped left on someone he knew was an absolute super-like (which are also limited without the premium).

In both the immediate and long-term aftermath, he obsessed over it way longer than necessary.

Who was to say she even would have matched with him anyway?

And even if they did match, who was to say anything would come out it? Like the vast majority of matches. Even if they actually met, it would likely join the cesspool of awkward, disastrous one and done dates.

Even with rational thoughts such as these in mind, he still continued to obsess over it.  

  As he continued to do so for as long as he was single.

Which was for the rest of his life.

ii.

Of course, had he met her, he would very much realize how much he missed out on.

Because if they did meet, they would have hit it off instantly.

Their chats would be the most satisfying.

Their first date would be absolute perfection.

Their first kiss would be amazing.

Their sex beyond anything they had ever experienced.

They would be happily married ever after.

They would have beautiful children and grandchildren.

And they would die in their sleep.

Holding hands.

As they did for most of their life.

iii.

Across town, another local single was making the biggest mistake of her life. She accidentally swiped left on someone who she could she would vibe with like no other.

But then she tossed it all way…to the left. If only she hadn’t canceled her premium membership just last month. She never once used any of its perks, including the coveted rewind button.

So, she canceled.

Go figure.

She never obsessed over a missed connection in her life.

Or, really, anyone period.

That is, not until now.

She knew obsessing over it wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

That it all in her head.

But that still didn’t stop her.

Deep down, she knew.

A feeling that would grow even deeper for as long as stayed singe.

Which was for the rest of her days.