Justin Blaney's Blog, page 47

Last Night’s Farewell, Chapter 8

 

how do we know when a decision was good or bad?

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I woke the next morning to my phone buzzing. Lysander’s face blinked on the screen.

Shit.

I pressed the reject button and pulled myself up. My head pounded and I needed about three bottles of water. One sat on the bedside stand with a cardboard cutout over the lid that said, Thanks for your loyalty. Have a drink on the house. Wow. Free water. I wonder how many nights you have to stay to get that perk.

The phone beeped again.

Calendar appointment: Volunteering at the School’s breakfast for the hungry. Starts in 10 minutes.

I slid to my feet, bracing myself on the headboard from a sudden spell of dizziness.

“Elliot?” My voice sounded as empty as the hotel room.

Someone knocked at the door. I jumped.

“Room service?”

“Umm,” I glanced in the mirror. I was wearing a bathrobe with an embroidered hotel logo above my breast. “Can you come back?” I opened the bathrobe and found I was naked. My dress lay on the floor by the dresser. My underwear hung from the bathroom door handle. I’d have sworn to never drink again if I could remember what happened after I fell asleep. Did he sleep with me? And where the fuck was he now? I realized I had no idea how to find him. I didn’t even know if Elliot was his real name.

I felt between my legs, but there were no signs of sex. If I took a shower after, there wouldn’t be.

My phone buzzed again. A text from Lysander.

Where are you?

I pulled on my clothes, and shoved a few scattered things on the table into my purse—lip stick, pink hair ties knotted with Sophie’s blonde hair, a tampon.

I burst into the hallway, almost running over the cleaning lady. “Sorry.”

She said nothing. Brushing my hair with my fingers, I glanced back at her staring over the cart at me, feeling every embarrassing step of that walk to the elevator. It felt like leaving your room after having nasty hotel sex to find a family in the room next to yours leaving at the same time. The doors opened, slowly, and while waiting to arrive at the lobby, I typed a quick reply to Lysan.

I stayed with a friend last night. Just need some space right now. 

His reply came immediately, like he had been staring at the phone when my message came through.

Are you OK?

Yeah. Did you remember to pack lunches for the girls?

I waited for a response, but none came. The elevator door opened with a ding and a sexy voice. “First floor.” I tripped down the stairs to the street. A police officer was just putting a ticket under my wipers when I arrived at my car.

“Wait, I’m here!”

“Already printed it.” He looked me up and down, then handed the envelop to me. “Have a nice day miss.”

“That’s likely.”

Nothing quiet screams one night stand like getting a parking ticket while wearing a cocktail dress at ten in the morning. I jumped into the van and drove up Pike to the apartment. I was met with a stale and quiet heaviness when I pushed open the door. Peeking in the girl’s room, I saw their beds were made, but a pile of school books were stacked on their Pottery Barn desk. If he forgot the books, who knows if Lysan remembered their lunches. Just in case, I made a couple PBJ sandwiches, threw them in a brown paper sack with two apples, a handful of fruit roll ups and two boxes of apple juice. I changed and was out the door again.

By the time I turned into the parking lot of the school, I was almost 45 minutes late. I spotted Huma on playground duty, so I drove around to the back of the church and walked through wet grass in the old graveyard to the kitchen door. The smell of stew and bread filled the fireside room. A half dozen volunteers hustled about the kitchen, while another two set up tables where a line of homeless and poor would soon be served what might be their only hot meal today. St. Martin’s worked with six other churches, shelters and nonprofits on Capital Hill to make sure every day of the week was covered. One of the busiest homeless camps in the area was just down the street.

I grabbed an apron, tied my hair back and greeted a few of the regulars.

Rachel took a bin of spoons from the top shelf. She once told me she got tired of people staring at her, and asking if she played basketball.

“Must be nice being so tall,” I said, taking the bin from her.

“I didn’t think you were coming today?”

“Ran out of gas. Had to walk five blocks to a gas station.”

She gave me a visual polygraph. “Don’t let Huma see you.”

“Oh, we worked that out,” I said, but Rachel was already around the corner and through the door, two more bins in her arms.

I followed her out, set the spoons down and adjusted the tables so they were straight in a line. A couple new volunteers who I hadn’t met yet brought out chaffing dishes filled with stew. I waited until they left to push the serving dishes closer to the edge of the table, and slipped maroon cloth napkins under the feet, dangling off the edge of the table. Before I started volunteering, the white table clothes were stained so badly from spilled chili and spaghetti and meatloaf they looked like bed clothes from a brothel. The maroon towels kept the table cloths that I’d purchased for the church clean.

Rachel was huddled with the two new girls in the kitchen when I walked through the door. They stopped talking and went back to work when they saw me.

“What’s going on?” I asked Rachel.

“They were just wondering who you were.”

I’d been volunteering here for two years and I felt like the new kid.

“I’d love to meet them.” I said.

A door opened on the far side of the kitchen and Huma walked in. “Are we about ready?” she said.

I tried to position a rack of shelves between me and her without Rachel noticing.

“We’ve got this covered,” Rachel said. “Why don’t you take the day off?”

“I don’t mind—“

“I really think you should go.”

My eyes darted from Rachel to the two new girls talking with a few others, staring at me. Talking about Lysan’s affair, I guessed, how it was all because of me. How I’d pushed him away when I lost the baby. Things here at St. Martins had never been the same since the miscarriage. The rumors, the lies, they were so much more attractive than the truth. I always thought it was Huma that started it. She was the first one to ask. Is there anything you want to confess? Are you sure you’re being honest with us about what happened? I told her I was worried it was my fault. That I’d had a drink or two. Never more than that. Not once. But maybe that was too much. Maybe I’d caused the baby to die. But that wasn’t enough for her. She had to keep pushing. She said babies don’t die from having a drink or two. That it was something else. That I was hiding something. I said I didn’t know what she was talking about. She thought I did. That someone had seen me leaving Planned Parenthood a few days before I told everyone I’d lost the baby. She confronted me again, with several sisters from the church. They said there was forgiveness for sins. They said lots of girls come in to the shelter the church runs, young girls, prostitutes, girls down on their luck. That sometimes these girls are pregnant. And then one day they’re not. That they understood the pain, the confusion. And they just want me to be free from my sins. To confess and seek healing. But I didn’t have an abortion. It was a miscarriage. I promised. I wept. They said they heard about the fights Lysan and I were having. That he wanted a baby and I didn’t. That he was ready to try again. And it was me who was resisting. It was always me who wasn’t ready to move on. Me who blamed myself. Me who hated the women I saw naked every morning after my shower. The scars on my belly. My huge nursing nipples. The fat clinging for it’s life to my hips and ass and cheek bones. The lines crawling out from my eyes and across every curve of my face.

Principal Gerald appeared beside Huma. They looked in my direction. The metal shelf between us seemed to twist and crumple up on itself until nothing stood between me and judgement. Everyone fell silent. Everyone watched. Mr. Gerald walked to me, Huma following. I thought I caught a grin on her face, a wicked indulgence she quickly wiped away. Perhaps she left it there just long enough for me to see. She was winning. She would always win. This was St. Martins. The parents are demanding. They are righteous. They don’t want their children around an unconfessed sinner.

Mr. Gerald put his arm around me, and turned me toward the door. “Adela, can I have a word?”

Aching moved from my spine up to my skull. I rubbed my face. Huma followed us. Mr. Gerald looked back, “I’ll handle this Huma.”

She glared at me, surely feeling robbed of the chance to watch my embarrassment up close. The commotion of the kitchen returned. The guests were coming in the door. I spotted a lady I’d spent some time with, what was her name? Something she’d given herself, or she had hippy parents. Moonlight? She was hooked on meth. Her three kids, each with a different father, were in foster care. She wanted to change, but she just couldn’t stop. I gave her some money to buy groceries, but she spent it on drugs. The next week I took her shopping, bought her a coat. It was so cold in December that year. It was going to be another cold winter. We’d had a few mild years. But the leaves were turning fast. They lay in piles around us as we walked down the sidewalk to the parking lot. I spotted Pimm in a window. She loved to sit where she could see outside. I wanted to wave to her, to get her attention, but she was talking to the teacher. She wouldn’t see me. Mr. Gerald walked me all the way to the van.

“Adela.” He hesitated. “I’m really sorry, but we can’t have you come back here.”

“You’re going to let Huma win?”

“This isn’t about Huma.”

“Don’t you know it’s not true. The things she said about me.”

He stared at me, a kind sadness in his old brown eyes. He seemed to long to say something, but stopped.

“I thought Christians were supposed to be forgiving.”

“Of course child. It’s just confusing for everyone. It’s a distraction. The other volunteers are upset.”

“About what? What did I do that was so terrible?”

“No one is saying you did anything. We just can’t have you volunteering here anymore.”

I stopped myself from saying any more. It was pointless. I pulled the paper sack from my car, bulging and heavy. “I don’t think Lysan made the girls’ lunches this morning. Will you get this to Pimm and Sophie?”

He stared at the bag as I put them in his hand. When he looked up, a tear rolled down his cheek.

“Yes, of course. Take care Adela. I will be praying for you.”

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Complete list of chapters here: Last Night’s Farewell

I’m hoping this is an interactive experience. Comments, ideas, and feedback are welcome.

The best way to get each new chapter is to subscribe to email updates below

a maker of beauty

a maker of beauty is often lonely
if she is content, how can she yearn?

 

 

All my books are free forever including, Where Whispers Willow, a collection of 100 reverie, musings and lingering dreams.

 

Last Night’s Farewell, Chapter 7

when i say 

i adore you 

what i mean is 

i will do anything to give you everything

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Elliot carried me to the bed, then disappeared. I stared upside down at a dozen Andy Warhol portraits of Marilyn Monroe in different colors hanging above the headboard. I felt like each one of them was my mom criticizing me for something new. Don’t eat that, you’ll get fat. Stop bitting your nails. That dress makes your legs look chubby. Show your teeth when you smile, we didn’t pay ten grand for braces so you could hide behind your thin lips. Are you on your period darling, because you’re being a real bitch.

I twisted on the sheets. “I shouldn’t be here. I have to get home.”

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere,” Elliot said from the bathroom.

I managed to find my phone. Two message from Lysan that I ignored. And one from the babysitter: Lysan is home, so I’m going to take off. Goodnight! I touched my face but couldn’t feel anything. “How many drinks did I have?”

“Too many.”

“I feel weird.”

“It’s called drunk.”

“Do you think one of those guys put something in my drink?”

Footsteps approached, soft on the carpet. “I don’t think they’re sophisticated enough for that.”

I wondered if Elliot was. I felt him staring, rolled over and watched him study my face.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” I said, then looked away, desperate to cover my face with pillows and scream.

He sat beside me, smiling kindly. He brushed hair from my eyes, then moved his hand to my cheek and leaned down close to my face. “Adela, I think you’re solidly average.”

I hit him. “Rude.”

“You know you’re beautiful. You’ve probably known that since you were four.”

“You haven’t seen me naked.”

His hand slipped to my stomach, laying there softly over the black fabric of my dress.

I envisioned the scars that lay beneath his hand. “Pregnancy and I didn’t get along very well.”

“How do you know?”

“I have stretch marks.”

“No, how do you know I haven’t seen you naked?”

I sat up in the bed. “Have you been spying on me? Is that how you know all that stuff?”

“Well, actually I have.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“Fine. Why.”

He took my hand into his. They were warm and big. “Because I’m in love with you.”

We held each other’s gaze until the Air Conditioner whirred to life.

“How can you love me,” I said. “I don’t even know you.”

“But I know you. Better than anyone in this world.”

“How?”

“I can’t explain. I just need you to trust me.”

“Why should I?”

“I’ve been searching for you for a very long time.”

His blue eyes seemed to catch every spec of white from the bedside light, each ray speaking softly to me, seducing me with stories of pursuit and love, drawing me deeper and more completely into the embrace of his gaze. I lay back, falling softly onto the pile of feather pillows, still watching him. And he me. My eyes drooped. He lay down beside me, touched my face so gently it lulled me into a half dream. And yet I was still here, in the hotel room, but more like watching us lay together from the other side of the room. I think he might have thought I was asleep. I felt him move closer to me, so quietly he wouldn’t have woken a baby mouse if it were sleeping on my pillow. His breath warmed my face, sweet and tangy with alcohol. And then I felt his lips brush mine, and his arms heavy and strong around me. And the girl who had been watching from the other side of the room slipped away. But I didn’t want her to go—some part of me afraid of being alone. Alone with a man I didn’t know. I called out to her, in my half dream. Please, don’t leave me. Something is wrong here. But she was gone. And I was only dreaming. And those who sleep make no demands.

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Complete list of chapters here: Last Night’s Farewell

I’m hoping this is an interactive experience. Comments, ideas, and feedback are welcome.

The best way to get each new chapter is to subscribe to email updates below

3 man is a simple creature

3

man
is a simple creature
his only desire
is to be known
and adored
completely

 

 

All my books are free forever including, Where Whispers Willow, a collection of 100 reverie, musings and lingering dreams.

 

Last Night’s Goodbye, Chapter 6

darkness must be maintained

planned and worked at

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The Manny’s pale was cold in my hand and hot in my veins. Bubbles raced to the surface, exploding in bursts of liquefied hops as water droplets collected on the outside of the glass until their weight became too much, dripping plink by plink onto the tabletop. A cold breeze rustled through the terrace plants with the smell of sizzling steaks that reminded me how little I wanted anything to do with eating. My buzz had faded now that we were sitting in outdoor sofa chairs, replaced by a dull pounding in my head. Setting the beer down, I pulled my coat around me tighter.

“You’re really not going to believe me,” Elliot said.

“Just tell me.”

He took a long drink of Chocolate Stout and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Have you seen Edge of Tomorrow?”

“Is that a movie.”

“Yeah. Well they changed the title. It didn’t do well in theaters so they changed it to Live Die Repeat. You know, with Tom Cruise?”

“I can’t stand Tom Cruise.”

“How about Groundhog Day?”

“The only good Bill Murray movie.”

“Yeah. Well—“

“Let me guess. You’re living the same day again and again.”

“Just let me explain.”

“If you tell me that you’re living in a time loop I’m going to dump this beer in your face.”

“Do you want me to tell you or not?”

I motioned for him to go on. Elliot cleared his through. He hesitated, then said, “I’m living the same day again and again.”

I picked up my beer. He jumped to his feet. “Wait. I’m kidding. I’m kidding.”

“Stop fucking around with me.”

“Listen, I just can’t tell you.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

He sat back down. “Can I finish your beer then?”

I pulled two twenties from my purse.

“I’ll get the bill.”

“This wasn’t a date.”

“Would you please just sit down. I want to talk to you.”

I looked at him.

“Please, let’s talk about something else. Your future. How you’re going to find the perfect lover.”

I sighed. “You know my future huh? What’s going to happen next?”

“You’re going to begrudgingly sit down and we’re going to end up having a very nice evening.”

“I doubt that,” I said, but I felt dizzy and the thought of going home to Lysander made me feel even more sick. “All right future boy. Tell me three things that are going happen to me this year.”

“I can’t actually see the future. I’m just good at seeing the logical result of an action.”

“So do Lysander and I end up together?”

“I think you guys are going to make it.”

“Based on what?”

“I can tell you still love him.”

“I hate him.”

“And I’m sure he loves you.”

“While he was fucking another woman.”

“He hasn’t left right? He’s fighting for you?”

My phone buzzed. The babysitter was putting the girls to bed. “I swear,” I said, while messaging her back, “he paid you to come here tonight.”

He held up his hands like a basketball player arguing innocence to a referee. “I promise, no one paid me to take you out.”

“This isn’t a date.”

“As friends.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Dammit you’re argumentative.”

I slumped back into the chair. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just been a really shitty week and I’m being a bitch.”

My eyes were closed, my head leaning back on the hard mesh behind the cushion.

“Hey,” he said. And I felt his hand take mine. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” I sat up, my eyes moving from his face to my lap where his hand held mine. He had lovely and strong hands, but soft on my skin. I thought of the last time Lysander touched me, how I flinched. And now, this man who I barely knew was holding my hand and it was the most easy and right of any touch I’d ever felt. In a flash of blurring thoughts I saw how easy it would be to have an affair. How one touch so smoothly could lead to more, to lips on skin, to wanting everything, all of a man’s life at once over me and in me. And it made me, for a painful betrayed moment, feel some understanding for Lysander. I pushed this sympathy away. Too soon for forgiveness.

Slowly, I slipped my hand out from under Elliot’s.

He pulled away. “I didn’t mean—“

“No, it’s OK. I just can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“I would hate myself.”

He stiffened his back. “I’m not here to have an affair with you Adela.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s me. I’m too vulnerable right now.”

“I was just trying to comfort you.”

I studied his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I want good things for you.”

“But I don’t even know you.”

He sighed. “I wish you did.”

“Are you in my future?”

He finished his beer, and looked at the bar. “Would you like another drink?”

“Tell me, please.”

“I want your future to be with Lysander.”

“But what about what I want?”

“Do you want me?”

“I don’t know. I’m so confused. You draw me toward you in a way I can’t understand. Something familiar. Something right about you.”

“I’m going to get another drink.”

“Please don’t go.”

The guys from the bar, and three giddy women, stumbled toward us. They found the edge of the rooftop near where we were sitting. The loudness of their laughing and squeezing and impressing gave me an instant hangover.

“Hey,” Porsche said, “there’s that chic that called you a douchebag.”

“I think she wants to come back to the hotel with us,” the third guy said.

Elliot stood. “Let’s get out of here.”

I stood, and would have fallen down if Elliot hadn’t caught me.

“She’s drunk man,” Tesla said. “Better get a blowjob before she’s useless.”

Elliot put his arm around me and we made our way through the empty tables toward the elevators.

“Damn that’s some nice ass,” someone said behind us.

Elliot stopped by the trellis. He leaned me against it. “Will you be ok for a moment waiting here?”

I nodded, then watched him with blurry eyes walk back to where we had been sitting. I thought he must have left something behind. Before I, or Tesla realized what was happening, Elliot punched him in the face. The others laughed as Elliot walked back to me, shaking his sore hand.

“What the fuck?” Tesla said, holding his nose.

“Come on,” Elliot said. “Let’s go.”

 

 

We got off the elevator on the 8th floor. Elliot pulled a key card from his pocket and swiped it in the lock of room 813.

“Where are we?” My voice was so slurred I could barely understand myself.

“Just relax.”

I followed him in, then heard the door shut, and the deadbolt lock.

“You’re safe now,” he said.

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Complete list of chapters here: Last Night’s Farewell

I’m hoping this is an interactive experience. Comments, ideas, and feedback are welcome.

The best way to get each new chapter is to subscribe to email updates below

Last Night’s Goodbye, Chapter 5

light is instant

remove the dam and it appears

we are the masters of our own darkness

we need only draw open the gate

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The Nest was a new rooftop bar on First, atop a trying-to-hard-to-be-swanky hotel where guests sat at Mad Men style office desks in oversize leather chairs to check in. The sun had set over the Sound but the sky was still pale behind the Olympic Mountains, streaked with maroon and flecked with the first stars of October. It was cold to drink outside, but the man I had come to meet was waiting for me on the terrace. I watched him from behind a trellis of reddening clematis, leaning on the rail, staring at the lights of ferries and container ships hovering on the inky expanse of salt water. Behind me, dishes clashed with the laughter and chatter of guests at the bar. I glanced at three men in jeans, untucked button ups and sport coats stepping off the elevator in a cloud of noise, one of them midway through a story about how small this girl’s tits were, and how fucking her was like wrestling a 12 year old boy. They found seats at the bar next to a group of ladies with too much makeup on, changing to the topic of how fast one guy’s new Tesla was, and whether or not he could keep up with the other guy’s Porsche. Apparently it depended on whether they were on the race track, or city streets. I ordered a whiskey from the bar, downed it, and ordered another.

“What’s your name beautiful?” One of the three guys said.

“Sorry,” I said, “but you’re not my type.”

“See?” Porsche said. “That Tesla ain’t never gonna get you laid.”

The third guy leaned in toward me, his clothes thick with the smell of weed and lasagna. “What’s the matter? You don’t like fast cars?”

I drank my second shot. “Just douchebags with fast cars.”

For a second, he actually looked crushed. Patting him on the chest, I said, “Don’t be sad. Those girls over there didn’t get all dressed up like hookers for nothing.”

On the other side of the trellis, the rooftop was empty. The bar noise and music dimmed to throbbing static as I crossed the distance to my… date? Was that what this was? No, I didn’t even know his name. And I was married. This was definitely not a date.

He held a half full pint of dark beer over the edge of the rail, still staring out over the city and water. I stood near him, surely near enough for him to sense my presence. But he didn’t turn. I wondered if I should cough or something. I looked behind me, feeling someone watching, but the only people sharing the rooftop with us were huddled close around the glowing bar, forty feet away.

“Hi,” I said.

Still he didn’t turn.

“So, how long are you going to keep this cool guy act going?”

“I’m not the one who is acting.”

“Oh, you can talk?”

He sniffed.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“You really don’t know? You’re not just messing with me?”

“I’ve never seen you before today at Elliot Bay.” The words were meant to sound confident, but they didn’t come out that way.

“Well, that’s my name. Elliot.”

“Elliot?” I hoped saying his name might make these feelings about him I was having more clear. No luck. “I need another drink.”

He pushed the beer into my hands. “I’ll get us both something.”

I stood there, holding the beer as he strode away wondering what kind of guy gives his half finished beer to a women he just met? I leaned over the rail. Far below, traffic flowed through grey streams burned with dull orange effervescence. The median hight of a fall leading to death is 49 feet, and this building was easily double that. I wondered if anyone had fallen from this deck.

On pier 57, the Ferris Wheel spun slowly, flashing neon colors into the atmosphere. Elliot was at the bar, his back to me. The group of girls seemed to take an interest in him, and it made me feel strangely jealous. I sipped the beer, staring out at the now completely dark horizon until Elliot appeared at my side.

He took my empty, replaced it with a fresh one. Ice rattled in the glass as I smelled it.

“Ginger and whiskey,” he said.

“I hate whiskey.”

He looked at me long, and I felt as if he could see through me. “Want me to get you something else?”

“No, I’m not that picky.”

We watched a ferry slide into the dock. The bikes came first. Then cars began to roll off.

“Can I ask you something, Adela?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know everything about you.”

“I don’t even know everything about me.”

“Your favorite drink is Ginger and Whiskey—“

“That’s not my favorite drink.”

“You’re an introvert, but you pursue people who have no friends.”

“I’m not an introvert.”

“You love beauty. You would hike to the top of a mountain just to see the view from the top. You would drive an hour just to take your kids to a new playground you discovered. You sing in the car when you’re alone. You call your friends in Dallas nearly every day. You love ice cream, but hate frozen yogurt. You love being short. And you love the softest kisses most of any.”

I stared at my empty drink. “What else?”

“I could go on all night.”

“Do you know about the darkness?”

He paused, then said, “You’re self conscious about being naked ever since you had kids. “

“Every women is that.”

“You hate your mom, but you still let her get to you. You’d do anything to earn the approval of people you can’t stand. You had a miscarriage. A while back. You didn’t quit drinking. And then, when the baby didn’t make it, you blamed yourself.”

“That’s not true.” I set the empty drink on a table, hand shaking.

“You whisper hateful thoughts at the woman you see in the mirror each morning.”

Tears burned my eyes. I looked away from him.

“What do you want Adela?”

“I don’t know.”

“I know you’re thinking about leaving your husband. So what do you want? What is out there better than him?”

“Someone who doesn’t cheat.”

“Maybe you pushed him away.”

“Fuck you.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I just mean, who are you looking for? Who is going to make you happy?”

“Marriage can be more than this. More than people settle for. I want someone to adore me, passionately, and more with each year, not less. I want amazing.”

“I think you should give him another chance.”

“Did he put you up to this? Did Lysander tell you all those things about me? Convince you to come here and try to get me to stay with him?”

“If that were true, I’d think Lysander was a pretty passionate guy who adored his wife very much.”

“So how do you know all that stuff?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

He looked hard at me. “I’ll tell you. But we’re going to need another drink first.”

<>

Complete list of chapters here: Last Night’s Farewell

I’m hoping this is an interactive experience. Comments, ideas, and feedback are welcome.

The best way to get each new chapter is to subscribe to email updates below

2 i rolled my window down and felt cold air move through my fingers

2
i rolled my window down and felt cold air move through my fingers
a pretty bit of sky floated by
a puff of cotton candy
i plucked just in time and popped in my mouth
a little shy, i looked behind
a wrinkled lady dressed all in black
grasped an invisible hand in the empty seat next
as if remembering her first taste of sky
shared with a lover who must have just died

we landed soon after
passing me, she smiled “i can’t recall the taste”
“do you not?” i said, for i knew she had lied
“indulge an old lady”
i thought for a moment, “a scoop of honey and lavender and the scent of waffle cones outside molly moon’s”
she leaned close to my ear, tear in her eye “but didn’t you know, sky is best when shared”

so my sweet love
i’ve saved you a taste
wet on my lips
and i’m almost home

All my books are free forever including, Where Whispers Willow, a collection of 100 reverie, musings and lingering dreams.

 

Last Night’s Goodbye, Chapter 4

assumptions are deadly

ever colored by bias and fear

the killers of life

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Elliot Bay Book Company, with creaky floors and rows of old wood shelves stocked with poetry and essays and thoughtfully curated fiction, is staffed with quirky writers and artists and book lovers who are only working there to pay the rent until they can make a decent enough living from their art. This is how all fine bookstores should be.

Past the shelves of local authors, and the rows of graphic novels, and three entire aisles of poetry is Odd Fellow’s cafe, which just happens to be the perfect place in all Capital Hill for a girl to find a muse floating by, or if not write, then perhaps do some good people watching.

The cafe was mostly empty. I spread out with a few books and an americano, for here, in the most coveted of all spots, the corner bench under the windows on the far side of the room. I needed time to myself, uninterrupted and space to process, and I had exactly three hours until it was time to pick up the kids. I pulled out my shitty laptop and stared at the blank screen.

He didn’t notice me for an hour at least, the man crying over his tiny brown leather journal. I wouldn’t have looked so often, checking to see if his wet blue eyes had darted up to catch me staring, except he was perfectly in my line of sight, at the far end by the coffee bar. His pen had not stopped since the time I sat down. I could imagine his entire life, a marriage proposal turned down by the women he knew was his soul mate, and now, with tears and their favorite song playing in his white earbuds, he was pouring out an epic love letter to win her back. He wasn’t the kind of attractive you would call gorgeous, but he was a solid 7 that would turn easily into a 9 after falling in love. He reminded me of Lysander when we first met, full of passion and life and plans to live well. I wondered if this man would change too after a few years of marriage. Would he become something like a dull reflection of what his lover had fallen for? Would the tediousness of bills and private school fundraisers and dirty dishes suck the passion from his bones and spit him out onto the couch to watch football all afternoon, wanting only a coffee table of beer cans for company.

He glanced up and our eyes met. We stared at each other for what felt an uncomfortable number of seconds. At first he seemed surprised, taken aback perhaps at the curiosity in my stare. But then he smiled. A shy, sad smile, the kind that begs to be kissed into real and full happiness. He stood. The table screeched. His coffee and stirring spoon spilled onto the plate. He crossed the distance between us with a few long strides.

He hesitated, then spoke so quiet I barely heard him. “Are you writing?”

Couldn’t he tell I didn’t want to talk? That I only wanted to watch him, imagine his story, but not give what little precious time I had remaining to a stranger conversation. I paused too long thinking of an excuse, which he seemed to take as an invitation.

He sat next to me on the bench, and more close than I expected.

“I didn’t mean to stare,” I said. “I was just thinking absentmindedly, and realized I was looking in your direction when you looked up.”

“You’ve been staring at me for the last hour.”

I pressed my back against the wall. “No I haven’t.”

“I thought you might want to talk.”

“That’s quite an assumption.” I folded my arms.

“You were the one staring.”

“I should probably get back to my writing.”

“But you haven’t written a thing.”

He glanced at my blank computer screen.

I shut the laptop quickly. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He stood abruptly. “Just forget it.”

Slumping back onto his bench, he went back to his writing, his shoulder turned toward me as if trying to stop me from copying the answers off his math test.

I turned myself so I wouldn’t have to see him anymore, feeling suddenly hot. My fingers hovered at the ready, above the asdf and jkl;, waiting to record the thoughts that felt so clogged inside me.

I rubbed my neck, stretched back my shoulders, then took a drink of coffee and stared at the rows of fake white books printed on the wallpaper. You have 2 hours left. Think. What do I want? Could I actually leave Lysan? How would this hurt the kids? Was I ever going to sleep with Lysan again? The thought of never making love to him made me ache with sadness, but as soon as I realized the feelings I felt betrayed by my own heart. I couldn’t allow myself to long for him, to miss him, not right now. Not until he’d earned me back.

Thoughts came and went, and still the blinking cursor stared at me, not a single word on the screen. I began counting the number of times it blinked. I got to 12 before slamming the computer shut. I risked a glance at the guy. Fuck. He caught me looking.

I walked over, sat across from him. “Did someone put you up to this?”

“I was just trying to be friendly.”

Something familiar rang inside me, something about the way his voice trailed off after friendly, the edge of frustration mixed with longing. Like an accent, or even the unique-in-all-this-world combination of several neighborhood specific accents, faint and far, yet close and knowing and confidently whispering something in my ear that I didn’t understand, but knew was heavy with depth.

“Have we met?” I said.

A silence passed as he stared at me. I felt like he was reading between every one of my lines.

“I should go.” He shoved his journal and sweatshirt into a bag. A pen fell on the floor. I tried to pick it up for him, but he grabbed it first.

“Why do you have to go so suddenly?” I said.

He didn’t answer. But as he threw his bag over his shoulder, he moved close to me. His smell filled me and I felt I might stop breathing. A familiarity washed over me.

“Who are you?” I said.

He moved to leave. I felt my heart drop, that somehow this was the last time I would see him. That I would never know what these feelings meant. But as he passed, he leaned close to my ear. “The Nest near Pike Place Market, do you know it?”

I looked up at him, feeling every inch of his height.

“Meet me at 7 tonight.”

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Complete list of chapters here: Last Night’s Farewell

I’m hoping this is an interactive experience. Comments, ideas, and feedback are welcome.

The best way to get each new chapter is to subscribe to email updates below

Last Night’s Goodbye, Chapter 3

hate is patient

hate will go to great lengths to pretend

to be love

hate will open doors for you

hate will apologize

hate will seduce and romanticize you

all the while planting infections of fear

to enslave you

to make you useless

hate’s greatest ambition is to make you nothing

<>

Sophie and Pimm lay in the same bed, facing each other, eyes closed, covers kicked to the floor. Sophia was wearing her favorite jean overalls with little pink lace flowers sewn into the straps. And Pimm was in a white linen dress, the one Lysan’s mom made out of scraps from her hope chest. Their hands and faces were smudged. Lysan knew I didn’t like them playing in the garage with the tools and gasoline, and he didn’t even bother cleaning up the evidence. I found my phone laying where it must have fallen from Sophie’s hand, wondering how late they’d been up watching old episodes of Duck Tails on Netflix. Or had they finished those and moved on to Rugrats? It was getting hard to keep track of what they were into anymore. I checked my texts, and found the girls had been filming each other in the garage. Perfect. Some evidence to confront Lysan with later.

I sat for a while, watching them sleep, no clue their mommy and daddy might not make it. I thought about them splitting Christmases, birthdays, everything, for the rest of their lives. I’d tell them, “You’re going to get two of everything. It’s going to be ok, I promise.” But then there would be the whispering at the school. St. Peter’s, one of the oldest private schools in the area, run by gossips and busybodies who would love to know about our marriage problems. I’m sure the other parents would stop wanting Sophie and Pimm to come to their kids’ birthday parties and overnighters. It didn’t ever seem to matter how hard I tried, how many tables I captained at their fundraisers, how many hours I volunteered for their endless causes. They would never like me, the pretty girl from Dallas who came from money. The girl who had kids young and made them feel old and ugly. They were just bitter from wearing their hair pinned back for the last 40 years and wearing loose fitting clothes that made them look like cross dressing mennonites.

Pimm stirred. She saw me staring and grinned. “Guess what I can do?” She blew raspberries in her sister’s face and burst into giggles.

Sophia jerked awake. “Gross.” She wiped spit from her face.

I tried to keep my composure, but couldn’t help but laughing.

“Classy,” I said, throwing blankets over both their heads. “Now get cleaned up for school.”

I hurried them out the door, grabbing the box of art supplies I’d put together for my volunteer work at the school. We crossed the street to the two car garage we rented to have more space to store all of Lysander’s shit. The door slid up, squeaking on the rusty rails. Two skinny guys with tattooed arms and necks were smoking in lawn chairs halfway down the block. The sight of people smoking when I was stressed always made me regret quitting. They stared at me. I wondered if they’d heard the gun shot. I wondered how many people had heard it, or if anyone called the police.

I called the girls to stop playing with their toys. Still the guys stared. We climbed in and I pulled the van out. As the door rumbled shut, I caught a glimpse of a sleeping bag and couple dozen stuffed animals arranged around it. The girls must have found the trash bag of toys I was planning to donate. They had at least a hundred stuffed animals, but parting with even one seemed to require a memorial service. The scene of those animals around the sleeping bag made me think of the way crowds gather when someone jumps from a building. Or the way crows peck at road kill.

In my mirrors I saw the guys in lawn chairs watch me until I was out of sight.

As my van rolled into the parking lot, I glanced at the church reader board to discover what insights it had for me today.

Jesus forgives you. Shouldn’t you too? And under that, Holy Water Two Packs. $12. 

“Do you have your lunches?” I asked as the side door opened, it’s little motor hidden somewhere inside the wall sounding like it was about to give up the ghost. They nodded. “And your homework?

“Yep.”

They darted out and ran past Huma, Assistant Principal in charge of Art Class, Physical Education and K-4 grade volunteers. Her endlessly grimacing face was enough to make my hand search for a cigarette pack in my purse, only to remember for the second time that morning that I’d quit years ago

“Hi Ms. Bassett!” Pimm yelled as she ran past. The bitch didn’t even look at her, eyes locked on me, arms folded more tightly than the bun on top of her head. I grabbed the art supplies, shut the van’s doors with my remote, beeped it locked, and prepared myself for whatever Huma had come up with today to make me miserable.

“Can we skip this today?” I said. “I’m having a shitty morning.”

“I thought we agreed you were taking a break,” Huma said.

“We never agreed to that.”

“I asked Claire to cover Art class today.”

“But I already created the whole lesson.” I showed her the box of art supplies as evidence.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve made other arrangements.”

“What’s your fucking problem with me?”

“Adela! The children.”

“Fuck? It’s in Shakespeare.”

“No it’s not.”

“Well they hear it at Taco Bell.”

“Please, keep your voice down.”

“What did I ever do to you?”

“We’re not having this conversation again.”

I tried to push past her, but she moved in front of me. I saw Mr. Gerald, the principal, watching us from the door to the gymnasium. He looked even more constipated than usual. A few parents whispered to each other in the parking lot.

I looked at Huma. “Please. I worked so hard on this lesson.”

“Claire has something nice planned, I assure you.”

“The last time Claire lead art the kids came home with macaroni glued to photocopies of Jesus.”

“If our art classes don’t meet your standards, you can take that up with Mr. Gerald.”

“I just don’t understand why you don’t want me helping.”

“Please, it’s better if you go. Now.”

I turned, stunned, and slipped into the seat of my van. Sophie and Pimm were laughing on the swings with their friends. No one but the principal and a few parents seemed to have noticed the exchange. Huma stared at me, her feet planted exactly where I’d left her.

I realized with a twist of my stomach that she must have had already heard about the affair. But how could she have found out so quickly? I couldn’t believe they would punish me like this. But Huma had always hated me. She hated that my art lessons were better than the teachers they paid. She hated that I was married and she was divorced. When she saw Lysander with me to drop off the kids she would meet us in the parking lot, have something she wanted his opinion on, and talk his ear off all the way into the school, looking up at him with big brown eyes and wanting smile.

Slowly and sickly the thought grew on me that Huma could be her—the woman fucking my husband.

Tears formed in my eyes as I turned the ignition and spun gravel.

<>

Complete list of chapters here: Last Night’s Farewell

I’m hoping this is an interactive experience. Comments, ideas, and feedback are welcome.

The best way to get each new chapter is to subscribe to email updates below

Last Night’s Goodbye, Chapter 2

65

the most powerful word is why

 

I woke curled on the couch, a thin red blanket draped around my shoulders. My feet were cold and bare. The smell and sound of sizzling eggs floated around me on rays of morning sun. Three empty beer bottles were scattered on the coffee table, their sickly smell mixing into the contents of my stomach with a rancid, unwelcomeness. Stacks of boxes lined the baseboard along the wall across from me, half of them half spilled out on the faded and torn carpet. A few boxes were shoved deep into the far closet, door partly open with a shirt drying on a hanger below the handle.

Kid toys, it said in my own handwriting, artfully written in the same style of calligraphy I’d learned for Lysan’s Christmas gift.

I heard his footsteps stop at the foot of the couch. “Hungry?”

I glanced up. He traced my eyes to where they had been focused, the box at the bottom of the closet. He pulled the shirt from the handle and shut the door with a soft click.

He sat next to me. “Will you have some breakfast?”

“I feel like shit.”

“Take a shower and a couple Aleve. I’ll be ready when you get out.”

He took my silence for a yes, it seemed by the way he rose—cheerful enough to make me feel the pounding headache that I’d almost forgotten.

I slid my feet to the floor and stared at the wall. I found I was gripping the old shag between my toes, as if my subconscious was attempting to transfer the pain from my head to the rug. That’s where we bury all our filth, isn’t it? Under the floorboards.

My clothes didn’t want to come off. But I fought the buttons and zippers until I had wriggled out.

The water hit my shivering naked body with a hot trickle. It didn’t matter how long I stayed in, I never seemed to get quite completely wet. But I’d learned to pool it in my hands and splash it here and there, giving each part of my body a proper splash, just one at a time instead of all at once. I would have stayed in for an hour and made Lysan wait, but the shower was too unsatisfying.

As I dressed, I noticed he must have already cleaned up the broken glass. Russell Wilson was missing from the wall, only a dark hole in the wall to prove that last night wasn’t a dream. I couldn’t remember anything after I shot the the framed jersey, except hours later stumbling between the couch and the fridge for more beer before falling asleep again.

I slipped into the frumpiest bathrobe I owned and left the towel around my head as I sat at the tiny kitchen table piled with Lysan’s crap. Not that this little table had room for the whole family to sit down together anyway. I ground pepper onto my eggs.

He must have noticed me glaring at the books. “Sorry,” he said, “I’ll clean this up after work.”

It was an afternoon start at school so I’d let the kids sleep in a while longer. Maybe get a nap after Lysan left.

We ate in silence. Lysander had put a few flowers in a vase next to a candle. Most mornings, I would have slid into his lap and kissed him long and soft for being so sweet. Today it felt like a slap in the face. The windows were filled with bright blue sky and just a few lingering clouds. A couple passed outside on the sidewalk, debating whether Madison Pub was still a legitimate dive bar, or whether Capital Hill was getting too gentrified with venture capitalist funded startups and upwardly mobile white conservatives.

“I’m sorry about last night,” I said. “Thanks for cleaning up the mess.” I’m sorry? So typical. He screws another women and I’m the one who feels guilty.

He looked at me, seeming to search for words but nothing formed. So instead, he picked up the dishes and filled my coffee cup, hand trembling, spilling too much creamer in.

“I have to take off for a meeting at 10 downtown,” he said.

I stared at the creamer swirling slowly, mixing with the coffee. The two becoming one. “Who was she?”

He shuffled the dishes in the sink.

“You never told me her name,” I said, louder.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Do I know her?”

“I’m not sure I should—”

“Who was she!” Faces raced through my mind. That teacher he was always chatting with at the kids school. The young barista from Honor Coffee that stares at him too long. The girl who sits next to him at work. My sister. My best friend Danny.

“Dave said it’s painful to know the details. We need to focus on moving forward.”

“He’s not even a real counselor.”

“I want to work this out. I still love you.” He reached for me.

I pulled away. “Was it that flirty bitch from the cafe?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t even say that.”

He stared at me.

“If you don’t tell me who it is, then you can pack up your shit and leave.”

“Separation is just the first step toward divorce.”

I stood so fast the table shook. “Where did you hide the gun?”

“OK, now you’re scaring me.”

I moved toward the bedroom, but Lysan wrapped his arms around me.

“Let me go,” I said.

“I shouldn’t have ever kept that gun.”

“Just leave.”

“I’m not moving out.”

“If you don’t, I will.”

“That’s worse.”

“Why are you pushing this?”

“It’s not safe.” He looked at the wall. “Fuck, you’re going to actually make me say it? For you Adela. It’s not safe if I leave.”

“You’re late for your meeting.”

“I’ll be home at 6:30. We’ll talk about this more.”

I felt him staring at my back for a moment, then his footsteps receded into the other room. A chair screeched along the wood floor in the entry way. I heard the rustle of him pulling on a coat. Keys rattled. The front door creaked open, then clicked shut. The apartment was perfectly quiet. Until I heard, softly, the sound of a key turning in the lock from the outside. As if he didn’t want me to hear. As if I were being locked inside.

<>

Complete list of chapters here: Last Night’s Farewell

I’m hoping this is an interactive experience. Comments, ideas, and feedback are welcome.

The best way to get each new chapter is to subscribe to email updates below