The Hidden Conversation: In Abstract

*Images courtesy of Jayne Harnett-Hargrove


Where was she when the world came to an end? Did she miss it? She must have, since she's still here and the commercials on television as are bad as they've always been. Light beer isn't less filling. They all give her gas. So maybe they are less filling since they pass through so quickly. She's hoping nobody notices. God, life would be more tolerable were she in New York. Or Rome. In the 6th century.

Did they have toilet paper back then? Maybe Wikipedia has a history of toilet paper entry. She hopes so. Such an article would be more useful than all of those ridiculously unimportant football statistics. What happened to intellectualism? No, there's no irony here. Intellectuals use toilet paper. They should, anyway.

Why am I blue? I'm not always depressed. Just seems that way lately.

Just go with it. Like a river. Life's a river. Why fight it? The currents only stop when there's a need to.

Until some engineer invented the dam.

Beavers did it first.

Beavers are pretty fantastic creatures. And so's the innuendo.

A good innuendo is always fantastic. God, I'd love to sleep with James Bond.

Which one?

Don't ask stupid questions. Any of them.

***

Where was he when the world came to an end? Did he miss it? No, he's in the middle of it, he's convinced. Like a yield sign he didn't yield through. The tractor-trailer approaches in slow motion until the last two butterflies caught in the grill are close enough to see. Right before the impact.

Who came up with light beer, anyway? Get me drunk as quickly as possible. No, wait... that's what liquor is for. Heh. Remember that shirt? Johnson's Casino? Liquor in the front, poker in the rear. Maybe it was the other way around. Damn, why do I always devolve into lasciviousness. Did I spell that right?

Why am I blue? It's not like someone drew me that way. Oh, wait...

We are all illustrated creations in the eyes of the creator.

Creations, creator. Sort of a banal combination of words. Repetition sucks, but such is life. We are doomed to repeat history.

Then again, some good things happened in history. Does repeating those constitute doom?

Variety is required to fully enjoy life.

Anheuser-Busch offers variety enough. Budweiser, Bud Light, Bud Dry, Bud Ice, Michelob, Chelada...

Chelada? Where'd that come from?

Probably the website.

***

Where was he when the world came to an end? Did he miss it? No, no. He wasn't born yet. Straight into the afterlife in all of its glory. This is Heaven and Hell. One without the other is an impossible state of being. Our miseries are too much a part of us to be ignored, in life and in death.

Another beer is another beer. Why be picky? It all winds up in the same place. The toilet. Or maybe the dirt. Or, heck, the pavement. Depending on if anyone's looking. Funny how manners are dictated by who else is around. Isn't anyone well-behaved for their own sakes these days?

Why am I blue? Is life really that bad? Well, no. But it's not really that good, either. It just sort of is.

Contradict, much?

One without the other is an impossible state of being. So is repeating oneself. ABC. It's as easy as do-re-mi. Damn, they don't make 'em like the Jackson 5 anymore.

Ben Folds 5?

They were a trio. Marketing gimmick.

And such is life. It's all a gimmick. Gimmickry. That's kind of a cool word. Gimmickry. Rolls off the tongue.

I can think of better things to roll off my tongue.

Damn. Devolving into lasciviousness again.

***

We're just paintings on sheets of music. Conversations hidden behind first impressions. A language few can read and fewer truly understand. Impressionist eyes staring at nothing, save for what's staring at them. Peel back the skin; throw acetone and turpentine on the colors, and what's left? Tabula rasa. Blank pages waiting for another composition. Silent and invisible until the mute and blind give us life. Does any of it matter?

Good questions to ask while enjoying another beer.

I gotta pee.

*Read another interpretation at The Hidden Conversation: In Concrete

Resignation

It is during Deborah's going away party that she realizes the young office attendant knows. She thought her 45 years of life gave her the advantage in effectively hiding her lascivious thoughts from him - Nathan being barely 23 - but it is clear that they did not. She's suddenly worried that the glass of champagne in her hand is one too many. Then again, he's the one who brought it to her.

Nathan's been Deborah's receptionist and assistant for the past 18 months, fresh from college and eager to start a corporate career. Her last assistant, Samantha, left to take a middle-management position at a competing firm. She had Samantha for nearly six years and, admittedly, was afraid to even look for new assistant. Hell, her retirement from the company was only a year-and-a-half away, and consideration was given to finishing out her time without an assistant at all. Her boss, Wayne, an over-eager divorcee who flirts a little too heavily with her, would hear none of it. In fact, Wayne's the one who hired Nathan as some weird gesture of eye candy that Wayne was hoping would result in some office sex.

He was wrong about the office sex. Deborah couldn't imagine sleeping with Wayne were he the last man on Earth. But he was right about the eye candy. Nathan was gorgeous, and not just in that youthful way. Everything from his cheekbones to his skin tone, his hair style to his lean musculature. Everything was just the way she likes it. The way she's liked it since she was a teenager.

And now he's sitting on an office table decorated with "Congrats, Debbie!" Handing her champagne. Leaning into her.  Whispering rumors of other employees. Casting surreptitious glances down her cleavage. He's a little drunk, she knows - Hell, so is she - but seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. She should be grateful for the attention, but it's scaring her. Why can't he go mingle with the young admin girls?

She must have asked aloud.

"Because, Deborah," he states, his voice not absent a slur, "it's your fucking party."

He notices her champagne glass, not-quite-but-almost empty, and runs off to fetch another. Out of reflex she stares at his ass walking away. She's going to miss that ass. He's smiling as he returns with two full bottles. She's going to miss that smile.

"Your eyes give you away, you know." He moves in a little too close when he refills her glass.

"Pardon?" She holds still as he pours.

"They're very wanting." His free hand brushes her between her thighs, thumb to mons pubis and fingers between cheek. She spills champagne. But that's not what he felt was wet.

She gets up, pushing him aside. "Nathan..." She rushes to the restroom

"Shit, I'm sorry. Kinda clumsy." It's as rehearsed a statement as there's ever been.

***

Deborah was always one to get to know her co-workers. She once worked at a firm where no one spent any time together outside of the office - or even seemed to want to - and it drove her crazy. She could certainly understand any reluctance to go out on weekends or enjoy private dinners - they all had lives to live, after all - but none even bothered to share lunch. It was an alien concept to her and one she actively avoided when she acquired her job here. She wasn't sure anyone at her previous employer even knew she previously married - or even had three daughters - but everyone at her current employer certainly did. She could barely remember the last time she had lunch without at least one co-worker present.

Their relationship started innocuously enough.

"Nathan, would you like to join us for lunch?" Deborah was already on her way out, two ladies from the marketing department standing behind her. She was, admittedly, hoping that he would decline.

"No, thanks. I'm just gonna grab something from the kitchen."

She's not sure why, since she was happy with the response, but something about him - probably the smile - elicited a push. "I'm buying. And I'll probably never offer that again." She can't quite remember, but she has the feeling that she winked at him.

"In that case. Sold."

The two chatted at work and quite often. But in the open air of an alfresco cafe, he was in a different element. Not only did he charm her two marketing friends, she found herself completely taken in by the stories he regaled. He wasn't even 22 years old and she felt envious of his life. A traveler by whim and whimsy, finishing his degree primarily via exchange programs and semesters-at-sea, even a two-year stint in the Coast Guard that began four days after his 17th birthday and ended only due to a sudden onset of asthma that mysteriously disappeared upon his discharge. An awareness that the world was his in that subjective, liberating way that the world could be anybody's. Though she took little, if any, credit for it, she had seen that attitude blossom in one of her daughters. It instilled in her an overwhelming sense of pride. Here, it instilled in her an overwhelming sense of something else.

Within weeks she found herself inviting only Nathan out to lunch. She was remarkably diplomatic and conniving, and none of her previous lunch mates paid too much heed to their exclusion. Occasional gossip quickly dispelled by an incredulous expression or a purposefully-designed joke. She loved hearing about his trials and tribulations on the social front. He took everything to heart but nothing too seriously and this demeanor elicited her openness in return. Within months she was convinced he knew more about her than anyone else. Even her children.

One day, while watching him file paperwork and flirt with an admin girl, he caught her staring at him and smiled at her. She barely noticed, lost in daydream as she was. It wasn't until he started waving slowly that she snapped out of it.

***

She's splashed her face with water. Peed. Splashed her face with more water. Washed her hands. Twice. Three times. Peed again. It's only a matter of time before someone starts wondering where she's gone to. Or what she's doing in the bathroom. There's a temptation to do something else, but she's a lady and will not consider it. Still...

She's terrified of leaving this room.

It's a fear that keeps her there until long after her party is over. And long after everyone's gone home.

***

Almost everyone.

***

She opens the door slowly, unsure of when the custodians show up. Satisfied that she's alone in the building, she makes her way in the relative darkness to her office. It's unlocked, thankfully, since her keys are in her purse, which is in its usual place in her desk. Her cellphone has nearly three dozen missed calls and over a dozen new voicemails, a dozen text messages. She finds it sweet that everyone was looking for her. Or pretending to, at least.

The light knocking startles her.

"Where were you hiding?" Nathan's smiling his usual smile. He seems to have sobered up, but his collared shirt is half-way unbuttoned, his hair's a mess, and he seems to have misplaced his shoes.

"Oh, you know. Parties bore me a little, especially when they're mine." Deborah tries very hard to force a natural smile. A friendly gesture that she hopes will very quickly lead to a gratuitous goodbye.

He approaches her slowly and she suddenly regrets making eye contact. He'd mentioned her eyes earlier. Were they really that obvious? He doesn't even ask a question and she finds herself confessing.

"Okay, Nathan, okay. I admit I've ogled you a bit. Fantasized about you some. I'm a single woman who hasn't had sex in 20 years. It's what I do. I'm sorry."

"Don't say you're sorry. I'm not stupid. I've noticed," he says, removing his shirt. "You're fabulous. I want to do this."

Ordinarily, such a statement would render her speechless, but it has the opposite effect. Particularly as he finishes removing the rest of his clothing. "You don't. You're going to regret it. I have daughters your age, for fuck's sake. Let's go home. Oh... you don't want to do this."

"Shut up." His tone is commandingly stern, yet, somehow, pleadingly gentle. "Take your pants off."

She's shaking uncontrollably, but manages to obey. In the dark he hears her belt jingle to the floor and he fumbles for her. He slips himself into her and her inhibitions disappear.

The Hidden Conversation: In Concrete

*Images courtesy of Jayne Harnett-Hargrove


"I think it's stupid, you know?" Energy's always got an opinion. It's usually wrong, fully dependent on superficial information provided by a source she wants to believe because it purports to cater to her.

"You know, you know, you know." Calm doesn't mean the repetition as an insult. It's not his style. Low-key is how he lives his life. He's just tired of useless words. He feels useless enough as it is.

"C'mon, you two." Tired's not the eldest of the three, but he both looks and feels it. Playing peacemaker is exhausting. He's too subdued to know that arguing is even more so. It's this demeanor that makes him welcome company, though he has few steadfast friends.

"I'm not arguing. But you have to admit that it's stupid. Who do these people think they are?"

"Yeah, whatever. You talk about this all the time and never do anything about it. You give a shit as much as the rest of us. Give it up."

You know what would be good right about now? Pretzels. Definitely pretzels. And maybe a beer.

***

Energy is overeducated and underachieved. It's her curse, her ability to understand and grasp a concept with a minimum of input. It's all so very simple, the way the world should work. Fix it from the ground up. Every time. Top down leads to abject failure. Every time. What? Go back to school and start all over? Fuck that, I know enough to make judgement from here.

Calm knows she's stewing. She's full of shit. She doesn't get people. She doesn't get life. So caught up in what it means to be academic that she never learned how to actually do anything. Or understand anyone.

Tired wonders why Calm holds it all in. And finds the irony. How Boheme of her.

***

Calm hasn't seen it all, but he knows he hasn't. He knows when he sees it, he'll have to deal with it. He might not be able to deal with, but he'll try, at least. It's only what directly affects him that has an effect on him. No one really cares who's starving in Rwanda. But, damn... that suicide bomber in Israel was beautiful. What a waste. Why can't I find a woman that beautiful?

Energy is incredulous. Why do I even talk to this idiot?

Tired can read her face. She's an easy face to read. Because he pretends to listen. You need an audience. Even if they're bored to tears.

***

Tired is, well, tired. He's lived a good life, done no one any serious wrong. Nothing he'd admit, anyway. Bygones be bygones and water under the bridge. Everyone can get along, even in the face of politics and religion. Still, they should all subscribe to the Good Book. All of that other crap out there is nothing but bullshit. Do unto others... and judge not, lest...

Energy blames a lot on the powers of history. Especially imaginary ones. God isn't real. He's just an excuse to alleviate personal responsibility.

Calm knows there's a good and bad to everything. Why whine about it? Why do you care, exactly?

***

If Energy could do it all over again, she'd change everything. The abusive boyfriend (never mind that she wouldn't have met the wonderful boyfriend afterward).

(Potential was the best thing to happen to her)

(Yeah, but Kinetic almost killed her)

Her career (she's creative, not corporate).

(No, she isn't)

(Oh, cut her some slack)

She even wonders what would've happened had she turned left at the gas station back in '96 instead of right. Something would've come out for the better, she's sure of it.

Calm wouldn't change a goddamned thing. The ex he chased away (he probably shouldn't have said what he said, though).

(That girl was an idiot)

(So what? He loved her)

His career (he did what he had to do when he had to do it).

(And you still haven't made any money)

(Money's not made you any happier)

Even the argument he had with his best friend the day before he died. It's grounded him. Made him appreciative. And it's part of the journey.

Tired has plenty of regrets. And plenty of hopes. All in all, though, he's content. A man once asked him out on a date (he was confused and thought about it for years afterward... the decision is still pending).

(Just come out of the closet already)

(Why should he? So you can scold him for it? Tell him you told him so?)

His career (he's never been enjoyed any of his jobs, but he's never really hated any, either).

(Do what you love. That's everybody's goal.)

(Speak for yourself).

He likes where he's sitting, right here, right now. Listening to two polar opposites whom he calls friends argue about everything and nothing at all.

***

"It's getting late. I should call it a night." Energy's not tired, she just wants to surf the web, research something on Wikipedia so she can later pretend she's known it her whole life.

"Yeah, it's time get home." Calm's not tired, either. But there's a book that's been sitting on his nightstand for too long and a song he wants to listen to alone in the dark.

"You two should just get married. You already argue like it, anyway." Tired smirks. He's tired. His two friends look at him, teetering between nervous laughter and faux anger. "Just trying to be helpful."

The joke subsides even if the punchline doesn't.

"Good night."

*To be reinterpreted in The Hidden Conversation: In Abstract

A Lovely Discourse

"How does one fall in love?" It's a genuine question from a naive mind. He can't help that he's so superficial. Both of his parents were models. They married after discovering his mother was pregnant and divorced before he was even born. There was an attempt at an annulment, but they wound up with a judge who had no sympathy for stupidity. Why they even thought they could get away with an annulment when a child was involved is beyond the comprehension of most sane people.

"What kind of question is that?" It's a genuine response from a skeptical mind. She believes that there are definitely such things as stupid questions and, to her, that one is a doozy. Her father was an engineer and her mother was a physicist. They always encouraged her to look within and beneath things... to find out how everything works. They were killed in a car accident. Some drunk driver decided the world had too many engineers and scientists.

"There has to be a process, right? It doesn't just happen." The contradiction begins.

"Sure it does. Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight?"

"Well, yeah, but that's just sort of a myth."

"Only if you don't want to believe in it." And it finishes.

He wonders about beliefs for a few moments, then decides it's not yet worth the effort in thought. "You eat dinner yet?"

She tries to remember her appetite of the last few hours, then decides her thoughts are best utilized elsewhere. "Did you just ask me out?"

***

"So, this love at first sight, how are you supposed to know? And how come love doesn't last forever?" These are questions the superficial are supposed to know the answers to. But he's too busy being superficial to ask her anything more relevant.

"Well, you'll feel it. Nerve impulses will fire, certain parts of your body will flush. And nothing in the universe is permanent." These are not the answers to the questions. But she's too busy looking behind the curtain to notice the drama unfolding in front of it.

"Yeah, but isn't love eternal?" The revelation begins.

"What happens when we die?"

"I don't know. Heaven. Hell. Something."

"Or nothing at all." And it finishes.

He finally decides to give beliefs dedicated thought, then quickly decides that he's attracted to this analytical woman sitting across from him. "You want to head back to my place?"

She tries to remember the last time she's had sex, then shuts it out once she remembers how turned off she was. "You're not just going to sweat on top of me and grunt, are you?"

***

"Are we in love?" It is a risky question from one who almost never looks beneath the surface. But he's still naive and only asks because he wants it to be true.

"What is love, anyway?" A calculated riposte from one who may not even believe in love. She finds it odd that despite the whole of human art, the concept's never been plainly defined.

"It's, you know, when two people need to be with each other." The definition begins.

"Do we need to be with each other?"

"Well, I want to."

"Wanting is not needing." And it finishes.

His thoughts are frustrated. She's confused him from the get-go, unaware that she's been playing Devil's Advocate in order to prevent another broken heart. "I want to do this again."

Her thoughts are spinning. She's certainly not in love, but she loves the feel of his body and his endless patience, as based in naivete as it may be. He's not intimidated by her. The confession begins. "So do I." And it finishes.

Intensity, Part II

*Continued from Intensity, Part I

The sounds of grappling and tired breathing seem louder than they are. Her awareness is heightened beyond imaginable limits as she runs - barefoot - away from the scene. Strangely, the gunshot is quiet, perhaps from a silencer, or perhaps from a need to pretend it wasn't a gunshot. She doesn't turn around to see. She simply runs.

***

It is a strange and unnatural feeling to fall from the sky, and she had no idea how she let him talk her into experiencing it. Well, she had some idea. It was probably that temporary vulnerability his eyes revealed - a false vulnerability - when they shifted from intense to begging. She knew that he knew all he had to do was get her on the plane. Once she was hooked tandem to the skydiving instructor - a friend of his - there was no turning back. He wouldn't allow it. The prick.

Her eyes were closed at first, but wind-pummeled curiosity soon fostered a peek. The overwhelming perception of the Earth from so high opened her eyes further, and she couldn't help but stare at the ground. She knew he was off laughing somewhere, but the rush of air prevented her from hearing it. Only his smile growing larger as he closed the distance between his own free fall and hers provided evidence of his twisted, but awe-inspiring, joke.

Afterward, she had trouble describing what kissing while falling from an airplane felt like, but she tried anyway. To anyone who would listen.

***

It had been a trick he used often. Get her into a car after an argument, then drive until both were calm. Only, she found herself never calming down, the relative claustrophobia from being confined to such a small space - even one surrounded by windows and directly next to a door - elicited panic. He drove too fast when he was angry. Too precise. She had seen him flip a suspect's car with his own during a chase caught by a news helicopter. She feared the worst as he drove with abandon through mountain roads in the middle of the night. But the fact that he seemed so calm about everything that happened between them only pissed her off.

She should have turned him in when the police questioned her in the recovery room. Should have told them that he drove off the cliff on purpose. Instead, she cooked up a story about a deer and that he was tired from having driven all day. Though it was his driving that put them both in the hospital - and on purpose - it was his driving that ultimately saved their lives. Where he learned how to drive down a cliff, she never learned. But even as he revolted her, he turned her on. She remembers his eyes as he ripped the door off the car, pulling her out of the passenger seat and laying her down safely. Intense eyes, full of regret, yet hiding the knowledge that something like this will undoubtedly happen again.

***

He was bold, that was certain. Approaching her even while under a restraining order.

"I just want to talk," he had said. "You can pick where."

She only agreed after sending a mass-text to everyone, letting them know where she was going and who she'd be with.

***

She doesn't know how it happened. How they wound up in an alley in a seedy area of downtown in the middle of the night. How his hands wound up down her waistline and his fingers inside of her. She'd never been attracted to a set of eyes like his before... or since. Eyes that seemed to suggest, "taste me." So she did, well aware that she might negate the restraining order she herself had applied for.

Never particularly adventurous when it came to sex, she allowed herself to be pinned against an alley wall, wrapping her legs around his torso in the process. There was some discomfort in their postures, but it was worth it, even after realizing how stupid she was being. She had stepped into the web of a master manipulator tonight - years ago, really - and couldn't get out.

Neither had any idea they were being watched, or that she would finally be granted the opportunity to escape.

***

She hates them, but she longs for those eyes. Intense, almost angry eyes. She doesn't yet know it, but she is safe from the assailants and the police will soon arrive. She doesn't yet know it, but she is finally safe from those eyes and will never see them open again. But, it is not enough to earn her forgiveness.

Intensity, Part I

"When I move," he starts, not sure if he should finish the thought. They've been lovers, but have not been the best of friends. In fact, they hate each other as much as they once loved. She quit trusting him years ago and he knows it. She needs to trust him now, though. He figures to see if she does. ".... run like Hell."

***

Their first meeting was rather unusual in that it happened twice. The first first meeting was the more memorable event, but it was the second first meeting that began their relationship. Both were attending night classes - she to finish her degree in education and he to obtain enough college credits to get a promotion at work - and noticed each other immediately. He was instantly attracted to her smile and she to his eyes. Her smile quite literally lit up any room - he would even later claim it glowed in the dark - and his eyes held a mysterious, yet familiar, sense of safety.

Feeling a bit awkward and given his line of work, he had a friend find out more about her before he asked her out. She, too, felt a bit awkward, but only because of the inexplicable familiarity. His eyes were intense - almost angry - but she couldn't help that they made her feel safe.

"You wanna grab coffee before class next Thursday?" he had asked.

Though not a coffee drinker, she replied, "Sure."

When Thursday came around, one coffee cup was refilled a half-dozen times while the other was merely sipped (and never went beyond half-empty). He wasn't as shy as he seemed initially and talked circles around her. She didn't mind, preferring to listen to his stories of traveling the world and doing adventurous things. Some, like jumping out of airplanes, she found stupid, but regaled in his tales nonetheless.

The most significant thing she found herself speaking of was her career history. Not sure that she really wanted to teach, she told of her previous jobs - everything from waitress to golf caddy. She explained the most recent job she held prior to returning to school and the horrifying reason she left.

He started laughing. She was appalled until he told her what he found so funny.

***

Most hostage situations in the United States end peacefully, with minor injuries and no loss of life. But this hadn't been one of those situations. To show they meant business, as the cliché goes, the robbers shot one of the bank tellers.

Before she could even finish her scream, the shattering of windows began, quickly followed by bright flashes and loud bangs. At the time, she hadn't been sure she heard more gunfire - blinded and deafened as she was - but seeing the news report later revealed that she had. She was sure, however, that she had panicked. Unwisely scrambling through what was briefly a war zone, it was a pair of black gloved hands - momentarily removed from their MP5/10 submachine gun - that swung her body out of harms way and carried her to safety. The SWAT operator had a balaclava covering his face, and all she could see were his eyes. Intense, almost angry eyes.

"You okay?" His voice, already muffled by the balaclava, sounded even more faint to her through the ringing in her ears. All she could do was nod rapidly and start to cry. She didn't even have time to utter a thank you as he set her down and ran off to join the overwatch element. But those eyes had burned their way into her memory.

***

In this moment, she hated those eyes. An argument over something - she couldn't even remember what... he probably couldn't either - led to broken furniture and torn clothing. And then he was on top of her, having forced his way inside of her despite her screams and cries. This was a scene oft-repeated, and she's embarrassed to admit that the familiarity of his body sometimes elicited a sick enjoyment from her. But not then. There was too much anger in the both of them. He would not be forgiven.

***

Both were drunk the first time they had sex. It was a euphoric experience for her and a playful resistance melted away instantaneously upon his penetration of her. She vaguely remembers seeing the skyline of the city below and the twinkling stars above outside of the hotel window. His hair had partially blocked the view which made the tapestry of the entire nightscape all the more erotic. For the first time in a very long time, she freed her body from her mind, a fact reflected in the scratches on his back he more than willingly endured.

***

She doesn't want to run, but she knows she has to. She doesn't want to leave his side, even though a small part of her hates that she's by it. He's already bleeding - one of the assailants came armed with a knife and managed to slice his back - and there will be more blood.

He looks at her, and emotion disappears behind necessity. "Are you ready?" he asks.

No. She doesn't have time to finish the thought before he pushes her out of the way and rushes the men.

*Continued in Intensity, Part II

Lost Kingdom

Her daughter is upset. This is, to Nicole, no surprise. All of her daughters' friends are married or in relationships that are almost certain to lead to marriage and her daughter often succumbs to the terrible weight of being alone. There's nothing Nicole can do, of course, and she's long since learned to let Kylie play out her own misery. It never lasts long, though. What's starting to bother Nicole is that it's starting to happen so often. And not just to Kylie.

"Oh, you'll find someone soon," she'll invariably tell her daughter. She's proud - extremely proud - that Kylie refuses to give in and lower the standards she set for herself, but sometimes wonders if the alternative might actually be a better lifestyle. Both women are single, Kylie in her early 20s and lifetimes yet to live; Nicole in her mid-50s and curious about how long a sunset can last. That Kylie is her child is the only reason Nicole's own desire for companionship is not the primary concern. Living vicariously will not make Nicole happy - this she already knows - but it keeps her going. She is her daughter's rock and she does not wish to let Kylie see just how brittle it's become.

Nicole's husband died when Kylie was barely three-years-old. A moment's combination of wrong place, wrong time ending in tragedy, as such moments tend to do. A fire at work, set by the building's owner as part of insurance scam, caused a heart attack. Forgotten in the panic, he was left inside by his co-workers. Nicole never learned what actually killed him. She hopes it was the heart attack, for the other is too much for her thoughts to handle.

Not religious, nor raising her children that way - Kylie has a little sister - there was nevertheless a profoundness at her husband's funeral. The priest had chosen the Lord's Prayer as the final petition, and as it came to close, "For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever," little Kylie looked up at her mother and asked, "Daddy lost his kingdom?"

No, darling, came the thought, I did. Looking down into Kylie's eyes, another thought quickly followed. And I will never let you lose yours. It is a vow that, even Nicole might admit, she has taken just a bit too seriously.

The truth is that Nicole is as lonely as her daughter. Indeed, even when Nicole meets and identifies young men that would be "perfect" for Kylie, there's almost always a subtle acknowledgment that these men would have been perfect for herself. Adding to the irony is the fact that most daughters are hesitant to accept men found and recommended by their parents, and Kylie is certainly loathe to do so - for she knows her mother as well as her mother knows her. Still, it provides Nicole the opportunity for a harmless flirt, ostensibly pitching her beautiful daughter to eligible men while fueling herself with enough lustrous banter to get through the week.

It is during one of her ostentatious flirts that her own loneliness becomes the subject of conversation. Nicole had been working on this one for a while and his willing vulnerability had the unintended effect of fostering a vulnerability of her own. "You know," she starts, only partially aware of what she's about to say, "if you were just a bit older or I a bit younger. Or both." The abandonment of fear that allowed her to say that immediately dissipates upon saying it. His reaction may break her heart, but he only smiles and offers a pragmatic reply. "3.5 billion men in the world, Nicole. You'll find one experienced, unafraid, and unwilling to waste any more time wallowing in his own loneliness." He pauses, though Nicole can tell there's something left unsaid. In reluctant acceptance of the entire situation, he adds, "And your daughter will, too."

As a Christmas present later that year, Kylie takes Nicole to a city Nicole's often dreamed of, but never had the chance to visit. Taken by the beauty of a snow-covered Moscow, Nicole allows her concerns - both of herself and of her daughter - to disappear in fields of white. Even the "random" appearance of one of Kylie's old boyfriends doesn't dissuade Niicole's spirits and, anyway, she's happy that Kylie is enjoying the company of a man.

Wandering through the cold streets of the Russian capital, Nicole slowly realizes that an evening has never felt so romantic to her, despite the fact that she's alone. The Spasskaya and Ostakino towers are as beautiful at night in person as they are in photographs. Touching the walls of St. Basil's Cathedral with her own fingers is almost as profound an experience as a three-year-old's daughters confused words. And even the skyline of the IBC seems to shout at Nicole in defiance of a shared loneliness. By the time Nicole is too cold to continue her sojourn, she doesn't even mind the ugliness of the dirty slush covering the city's roads. Indeed, Nicole decides, her night is far from over. "Can you recommend a good cafe?" she asks the taxi driver. "Of course," he replies with the same smile she saw in a pragmatic boy thousands of miles away.

At the French Cafe, just outside of the center of the city, she removes her overcoat and her ushanka and sits at the bar. She laughs gently as the bartender mistakes her for an American, but takes solace that they speak excellent English here. It will make her sampling of white wines far easier.

While taking her slow ride to inebriation, she glances casually around the cafe, taking note of all of the couples, what they're wearing, and how they whisper sweet - or lascivious, she hopes - things in each others' ears. She sees a man in a corner who, she can tell, carefully observes the room. He's roughly her age, perhaps a bit younger, and though his eyes point mainly at his table and his quickly emptying wine glasses, there's no question he's completely aware of everything going on around him. Upon her second - or is it her third? - glance, she thinks she sees a smile. Ah, been caught, she muses, deciding she should probably keep to herself in a city so foreign and, perhaps, so dangerous. Although danger to her, at the moment, denotes something completely different... something rather inviting. She smiles, orders a glass of a Chardonnay she's never had - nor even heard of - and fades into her glass. To her, this is a perfect evening devoid of perfection, but the ambiance of the night comforts her and refuses to let her give into any negative emotion. Nicole wonders what Kylie is up to and hopes that her friend doesn't have a surprise girlfriend who might ruin Kylie's evening.

It's just like her. Can't stop worrying about my baby girl. Living vicariously does not make Nicole happy, but it does keep her going. And long enough that the bartender jokes there are almost no more wines to sample. She's about to return the humor when the bartender smiles, turns, and rudely walks away. "Hey, I'm not finished with you yet, you," she scolds. She has quite the scolding voice and expression, and she might as well try it on a Russian.

"Excuse me." A voice behind her. One experienced, unafraid, and unwilling to waste any more time. "May I join you?"

She's not even turned her head before her heart skips a beat.

Living Backwards

"Ka-blam, elimination! Lack of education!" - Big Mama, The Fox and the Hound, 1981

She's heard the term, "a child going older," but she never realized that most were applying it to her. A false halo filled with the pride of a false independence hung gently and comfortingly over her head. She'd only paid rent at one place in her entire life, and that was at a discounted rate a brother had secured for her. Her first time away from home ended in disaster. Her second time, too. Still, she tried everything to fake growing up and out. After all, living off of parents is the only thing that signifies remaining a child, right? Living with a grandparent, a sister, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a husband of convenience was simply part of the plan to make independence less expensive.

When your dirty clothes are piled to the ceiling is not the time to learn how to do laundry. When your footprints let you know where you've tread is not the time to learn how to use the vacuum. That your hand was held so tightly is only killing you now. That your eyes only ever looked to the shadows of your parents is why the world seems so strange. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to knowledge, but you revel in your ignorance and call it innocence.

She's loathe to accept cautions for what they are, preferring instead to interpret them as criticisms, never stopping to realize that people are trying to help. False halos from those who do not believe in her god will not affect her, regardless of their benevolence. Her Tower of Babylon is already built and those who love her watch in futility as she tumbles down its steps. She adores the descent, though, ignoring the bruises and convincing herself that no flight is accomplished without pain. Without the stern prodding of a parent toward the edge of the nest, she remains afraid to truly fly. Adults only learn to glide on the wind by flapping their wings and this one refuses to flap.

When you finally hit the ground, expect no womb to return to. When you finally accept that your wings are too old to learn to fly, expect no sympathy. Convince yourself that your god fated this life for you as wonder why happiness is so elusive. Convince yourself that independent thought is dependent on constellations and Tarot cards. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to wisdom, but you revel in your eradication and call it experience.

Checkmate

She's always been the type to lie. Her initial reaction to any statement that ended in a question mark. The truth left her empty - always did; always will - so why not lie?

Funny that an honest man is better at it than she is.

He'd lost interest in her long ago. And she knows she needs to be with another liar. It's the only way for her life to mean anything. He should just get up and walk away, but she challenged him to this game. And he's stubborn about challenges.

"I love you," she says. It is an opening move meant to disarm, but he's seen that one before.

"I don't care." Riposte. A pawn in the open. Will she chase it? Or does she still not know the rules?

"You never did." She tries to widen her puppy-dog eyes, knowing the value of visual reinforcement. They quickly shift to a disgruntled squint in response to his refusal to take his own eyes off the board.

He does see her expression - both of them - and holds back a confident laugh. She's beautiful, no question about that, but if ever the cliché concerning inner beauty were true, it is now. Her pale skin hides tissue diseased in its existence. A rotting corpse living in a spoiled and wasted body, white knights foolishly attempting rescue. Bishops skirting the issue from corner to corner.

Good thing, then, that the rook prefers the blunt, direct approach. "Your move," is his only response.

They are queen and king in every sense of the irony. She, powerful in motion and overbearing beyond the limits of patience, failing to recognize that she exists only to protect her king. He, subtle in motion and preferring to hide behind a wall of peers, failing to recognize that his queen is his best asset. Still, he can survive without a queen. She is lost without a king.

She castles, shifting her king to another location. It is a strategy that does not exist in the real world. A lie on the battlefield. How apropos, he thinks. How useful, is her own thought on the matter.

White falls to black and black to white, leaving chips of gray in the wake of simplistic frays. He lives here, in the gray, knowing that is how the world works. She prefers the black and white of wrong and right... and as long as she is on one side, she believes her motives to be pure.

"I've never lied to you," she claims, knowing he will recognize this as a lie. Still, better than a half-truth, which she oddly disdains. One or the other is her philosophy. Purity, if one would.

"A secret is a lie." It is a statement not intended for her, for she is unwittingly incapable of keeping secrets. But he knows it will piss her off.

It does. With a quick and violent swipe, the board and its pieces are sent to the floor. He flinches, holding his hands close to his chest.

"You don't get it! I just wanted to be happy!" she yells.

"And what does that entail, exactly?" It is a question she's never been able to answer, not even with a lie.

"Fuck you." Ah, that old staple. She storms off.

He can't resist. "You lose."

She turns and glares at him. "We didn't finish." There is pride in her sarcasm, both in her voice and in her eyes. She begins to laugh and leaves the room.

Watching the door slam shut, he allows a small smile. He no longer cares to prove anything to her. Opening his left hand, his king is revealed. Placing it on the table, bereft of battlefield, of ally, and - most importantly - of enemy, he whispers, "Checkmate."

He pities her, truly. Such a person can never be happy, and he knows she knows it. Searching for pieces of games she will never finish, she will be as empty of life as the room will be when he, too, leaves.

Closing the door behind him, he takes one last glance at the king on the table. Devoid of conflict, it stands alone, content in its peace. And patiently awaiting the next player.

Twenty Minutes and a Gun, Part I

"Where you going?" Moira asks.

Linda smiles in response, a smile that reassures Moira that, yes, the same conclusion was reached. Linda is going to kill him. It's only fair... Just desserts for all.

Moira nods and reaches into her purse, pulling out her cell phone. "What do you need? I'll make the arrangements."

Staring at the wall, Linda thinks about it for a brief moment, then stands up and heads for the bathroom door. "Twenty minutes and a gun."

*01:00*

Linda looks at herself in the mirror, surprised at the sudden bloodthirsty resolve. There is a momentary recollection of some Commandment she learned years ago in Sunday School, but she shakes it off. In that moment, she has her justification. There is another about coveting, after all. Somehow, in the cosmic lot of drawn straws, everything will remain in balance.

Blinking, she turns on the hot water and splashes her face.

*02:00*

Setting the face cloth down, she clears her eyes and stares at her reflection again. This time, with drops of water obscuring her view, there's the sensation of seeing a ghost. Herself, a few years ago. Like a peek through a soft lens on a camera.

Linda was in love with life those few years ago. Everything and everyone she touched seemed happy. College was wrapping up, her boyfriend just asked her to marry him, her favorite cat had a litter of five (of which she kept two). So simple, then.

She grits her teeth suddenly and smacks herself in the face. "Bullshit," she utters. The facade was simple then, a walled-up complication just waiting to crumble. Things are truly simple now... rubble notwithstanding.

*03:00*

Her favorite three-color toothpaste glides onto a pink toothbrush. She remembers advice her college roommate - a dental student - gave her: "Floss before you brush, Linda. It lets the toothpaste get in the cracks." She has no idea why that popped into her head, but she sets the toothbrush down carefully and grabs a plastic flosser out of a ziploc bag. Flecks of last meal hit the mirror and bathroom counter as she quickly counts to 30, one for each flossed gap.

Throwing the plastic tool in the trash can, she picks up her toothbrush and begins brushing her teeth. He often told her that her smile was the most beautiful smiles in the world. She's going to be damned sure it's the last thing he sees.

*04:00*

Before she's even done brushing, she turns the hot water on to the shower. No time for a bath, unfortunately. Exhaustion creeps through anger for a moment and reminds her how tired she is. She really could use a soak... but that will have to come later. Time is of the essence, as they say, and there's only one essence to her time: she wants to be dressed to kill.

She rinses the toothbrush and sets it in its holder. Mouthwash is poured into lips and she jumps into the shower. There are a few seconds of introspection - and appreciation of the water - before she grabs the facial cleanse. Her hair does not need washing... it shines when it's a little bit dirty, after all... and she's going to be doing something just a little bit dirty.

*05:00*

The apricot exfoliate feels good on her face. She lets it set while she lathers up a washcloth with shower gel. She wants very much to enjoy the shower, but she's well-aware that she's on the clock. It's a self-imposed time limit, to be sure, but a time limit nonetheless. This needs to get done, and she needs to do it. Beginning with her neck, she quickly scrubs her skin down to her breasts - there's a brief recollection of his hands doing the same - then her stomach, legs, and feet.

She considers rubbing her feet with the pumice stone, but decides against it. She'll save that for the soak. After the murder.

*To be continued...

A-M-L-C-S

Strange... as I talked to a friend the other day, the subject of women came up. I guess that part's not strange, since I talk about women often, but this particular conversation went specifically to women whom I've been "enamored" with. Now, as a blatant hopeless romantic and serial-luster who "falls in love" at least once per day, even I figured this number to be relatively high. Much to my surprise, though, it's not (please do not interpret anything you read here as boasting or bragging that I'm some sort of "ladies man," for I am anything but).

In attempting to determining my "enamors" (using subjective standards, of course), I considered women that I've 1) fantasized over for significant periods of time - excluding celebrities - 2) pursued, regardless of success rate, or 3) legitimately dated or otherwise spent significant amounts of time with. This number was, I'll admit, a bit high. But while trying to figure out how to eliminate those who obviously didn't qualify as enamors, it dawned on me... I've always written about what Chazz Palmintieri's character in A Bronx Tale refers to as "the great ones." And I'm not talking little puberty-induced pornographic tales in high school, or amalgamating a real woman into a fictional character...

I've written about these women. Quite in-depth and quite often. And, in counting them, there are only five. That's it. Five. Five women I've ever seriously considered spending the rest of my life with. No more; no less.

The first was "A," and I met her at my first college. For three-and-a-half years, I had a bit of an arbitrary rule I adhered to: no relationships while I'm active duty. And I didn't. There were plenty of almosts, should Is, I want tos, and shits-she's-gorgeous, but I never gave in. Call it a misplaced sense of discipline (well, yeah... that's what it was), but somehow I never gave in. Until I did.

After my first tour I, reenlisted and attended a semester of college as a reward for staying in the Army. And there she was. "A." She was (and is, to this day) extraordinarily beautiful. A dark-haired, pale-skinned wonder from Ecuador. At the time, were I to close my eyes and imagine my perfect woman, "A" would've have been extremely close. And, as a young hopeless romantic, there were poems written of her. Nothing any good, of course, since I didn't yet understand poetry (probably still don't, to be honest), but it was written.

"M" followed "A" rather quickly, almost to the point of overlap. Putting it simply, "A" lost interest before the dust had even settled, and I went on my merry way. Just after that semester ended, a friend of mine introduced me to "M" who, as luck would have it, lived a mere 500 miles away. Still, we hit it off and maintained the relationship across the distance. Poetry was written for this one, too. Better than the stuff for "A," but still pretty bad.

"M" called the relationship off after I did something extremely stupid (no, I didn't cheat on her, nor did anything that could've gotten me arrested) and it fucked me up emotionally for about the next year-and-a-half. I almost even got myself thrown out of the Army during the fallout. All ended well, though, and we were even civil to each other at a wedding we both went to (that of the friend who introduced us, actually).

Granted, with both "A" and "M," I was still very young (that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it).

A couple of years after "M," there was "L," a local girl whom I broke another arbitrary rule for (no local girls). "L" would become, to this day, my longest relationship. And, probably by no accident, my worst. It lasted about 7 years longer than it should have, but there were money and assets involved, and so things devolved into a bit of a twisted chess match. She sucks at chess, but she won anyhow (if anyone could be called a winner). I wear no scars from women save from "L."

"L" is, frankly, the subject of at least 75% of the poetry I've written (though not here). She's also the subject of several woe-is-me rants and is even the basis for many villainous characters in stories I've written. Yes, there's a bad taste in mouth from "L," but I honestly don't hold any ill-will towards her (anymore, that is). And, in point of fact, given that so much has been written of her by myself, she is undeniably one of my enamors.

In the midst of "L" (in-between, actually... we had several break-ups and I never cheated on her... or anybody, for that matter), there was "C." The result of breaking yet another arbitrary rule (no one under 24), "C" was extremely young and a bit naive, but oh, such a thing to look at. And she was deceptively sweet. Though feelings weren't exchanged between us until after I left the East Coast, we reunited for a time upon my return. Most know how shitty 2006 was to me, emotionally-speaking, and "C" helped me through it. Her 2006 was pretty bad, itself, and we took advantage of that old cliché: misery loves company. She wound up in several poems, a couple of short stories, and even inspired a character (along with Natalie Portman... heh) in an early script.

Unfortunately (or fortunately... yeah, likely fortunately), we were both surrounded by other relationships that kept getting in the way. That, and she revealed herself to be dishearteningly materialistic and a tad crazy (whoa, the temper on that one). Needless to say, that one faded into history.

Two years later, during the tail end of purging "L" from my life, there was "S," the most pragmatic woman I know. A bit serendipitous, and never what I would call a real relationship, I had actually met "S" 14 years before I ran into her again. By simple providence, we had wound up living in the same part of the country, some 2800 miles away from where we first met.

As implied, "S" - unlike the others - was only peripherally an object of desire. There was too much going on in our individual lives, anyway... I was leaving the East Coast again and trying to avoid the military. She was staying and trying to join the military. But she did something for me that no one else did... the right person at the right time, in essence... she kicked me in the ass and helped get my life back in gear (she was, actually, the person who finally convinced me to completely let "L" go). She's also the primary muse behind my proliferation in writing this past year or so (there is an entire week's worth of writing dedicated to her). For that, she's enamored.

And that makes five.

Except... I haven't been completely honest. There's a sixth. I'm trying very hard for there not to be; I've got shit to take care of, after all... and I need there to be no distractions until I can afford distractions. Especially not one so young, beautiful, and on her way. Thankfully, this sixth is more an idea and an image and less a real person, allowing me to maintain some semblance of practicality.

Problem is... I'm writing about her. And there's no chance of her ever leaving the page.

Somebody shoot me.

Lollies, Stupid

*Not sure why I did it, but a random thought popped into my head and I wound up writing a semi-continuation of a friend's piece, "24 Hours in a Tin Can." It's not directly-related narratively, but it's certainly thematically so. Basically, I used her piece as a prompt, and here's what happened...

"You quit smoking, eh?" It's an accusation as much as it a question, and she wants to be totally clear about it. Her mother smokes and she'll be damned if there are two smokers staying in the same house.

"Yeah, a while back." He understands. He almost explains to her that even when he did smoke, he never smoked in the house, but he doesn't. His reluctant chauffeur is gorgeous and is sublimely aware of his interest in her, and he doesn't want to risk turning her off by telling too many fish stories too early.

"And how's that going?" There's a sarcastic twinkle in her eye, but she feels confident he won't notice it behind her oversized sunglasses.

But he does. He just doesn't take the bait. "Pretty good. Tobacco-free for four months. Nicotine-free for two." He reflects for a moment how little fashion varies from place to place these days. Probably the Internet's fault. His father would've blamed it on Hollywood, but since such placement of blame is passé - combined with the fact that he actually works in Hollywood - he ignores the mental voice of a scolding parent.

"Good," she says, rather bluntly. "The house already stinks." She sees him smirk out of the corner of her eye. It's a disarming smirk - he is much cuter in person - and she allows herself to let loose a small bit of friendly humor. "My nostrils probably have cancer by now."

There's a quick laugh and she turns to check out his smile - his teeth, actually - but he's looking out his window. In reality, he's looking at her. Her reflection just strong enough to see clearly. She's beautiful and it's near impossible to take his eyes off of her.

She doesn't drive much and he can tell. He rarely gets car sick, but he can feel the onset of motion sickness creeping its way up through his abdomen. It's probably no accident that the only three drivers to ever get him car sick were all women - his sister, his ex-fiancée, and one of his best friends from college. Why should this ride be any different? Of course, he's never had butterflies in his stomach flapping as violently as they were now. Put a man purportedly unafraid of anything into a car with a beautiful woman and he's suddenly omniphobic.

He clears his throat and shifts forward. "Is there like a candy store or something on the way?" His ears don't need popping, but it's all he can think of.

"A what?" She knows what he means, but she loves fucking with Americans. Who doesn't?

"Candy store?"

"We call them lollies here, stupid." It is as endearing as an insult could possibly be. "Are you car sick?"

Beautiful... and observant. He'll wax poetic about that later, hopefully after managing not to throw up. Too many hours in a plane followed by stop and go traffic, he does not recommend.

She pulls to the curb, leaving the engine running.

"What's up?" he asks. Although he's been avoiding aviator breathing techniques as he didn't want to look "uncool," he's wisely reconsidering his priorities.

She slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, laughing and sympathetic eyes peering past his. "Lollies?" She nods to the shop behind him.

He opens the door without looking and steps out. Gathering himself and trying to save some face, he leans back into the window. "You want anything?"

"Yeah. Don't spew in my fucking car."

He smirks again, hiding a wink in his sardonic smile. Candy, indeed. He can't wait to taste this one.

In-Love-In-Law

"You ready?" It is a rhetorical question, though one whose answer is not known, since there is no answer. Actually, there are several answers. All correct. All incorrect. This is simply a situation in which only the future will reveal what should've been said.

Peter winks upon Keith's nervous nod, then laughs when Keith nervously shakes his head. Peter's been married twice already - his third fiancée is sitting somewhere in the pews - and knows the answer doesn't even matter. All can be changed later. Reverted, converted, subverted... what have you. But this is Keith's first time as a groom. And he's about to crap his pants (figuratively, of course).

"Don't sweat it," Peter consoles, though it's already too late. Keith feels like he's swimming, his body an overwhelming source of humidity in a desert so dry. "I freak out every time." There's another wink, though even Peter realizes that his statement will probably just make it worse. After all, Keith believes that his "one, true" is in a dressing room across the church. There shouldn't be another time.

Still, Keith finds it extremely difficult to maintain his cool. Point of fact is that he's already lost it. He worries that some of his reasons for getting married might not be... completely appropriate. It's a secret he holds that is dangerously close to breaking free. So close, there's no point in trying to keep it anymore.

"I'm in love with my Mother-in-Law."

Peter gags.

***

"No, no, it's not like that," Keith stammers, trying to rectify the confusion he caused.

Peter stares at his best friend through squinted eyes. His brow is ruffled. This is just completely unexpected. And, like, totally wrong. "What's it like, then?"

Keith takes a breath. He really doesn't know how to explain it. He's not in love with his Mother-in-Law (or, rather, the woman who will become his Mother-in-Law in about an hour), it's just that...

"I sort of..."

"You fuck her? Please tell me you didn't fuck her."

"Dude! No." It's Keith's turn to be flabbergasted, though he probably should've expected the question. His Mother-in-Law, Susan, isn't unattractive, and were it not for her daughter, none of his friends would've questioned Keith bedding the older woman.

"You let her watch you fuck Catherine?"

That one, no reasonable person would expect. Although, for some reason, the memory of a porn movie watched while in college flashes through Keith's mind. Peter's, too.

"What the Hell is wrong you? Let me finish!"

Peter sits forcibly down on a small chair and almost immediately falls off. He quickly regains his composure, pulls his tuxedo coat straight, then crosses his right leg over his left knee. It is both a mock and quite sincere indication that Peter would love the whole story.

***

"So, hold on, one sec," Peter's trying very hard not to laugh. "You knew Susan for a year before you met Catherine, and that's what's fucking you up? That's it? Really? Come on, Keith."

"You don't think that's weird at all?"

"What? No, why the fuck would it be?" Peter is honestly beside himself. Of all the stupid things... "You sure you didn't sleep with her?"

"I swear."

Peter smiles; he can't resist. "And you're sure you didn't let her watch you pound her daughter?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Pete. We're in a church."

As Keith and, indeed, Catherine were both agnostic, Pete finds himself again being unable to resist. "You'll get used to it."

There's a loud knock on the door. It's time.

***

Peter finishes the toast. The ceremony went down without a hitch - which resulted in a deep, slow, and relieved exhalation from Peter immediately following the "I dos" - and the reception is proceeding nicely. His speech to Keith (and Catherine) brought uproarious laughter and more than a few tears and sobs. Peter's built for the limelight, no matter how small and subjectively important. He winks at his own fiancée, Amanda, and almost finds himself unable to resist another temptation.

But he holds his tongue. Sure, it would be funny (to independent observers only, of course), but Keith genuinely loves and is genuinely in love with Catherine, so to say anything would be ridiculously rude... and unforgivably disloyal. Peter is Keith's best friend, after all.

And besides, given that Peter's about to embark on his third marriage, he muses for a moment that perhaps Keith did it the right way. Instead of picking the bride and hoping for a great mother-in-law, maybe - next time - he should try it the other way around.

Go Tell It On the Molehill

The first date was fantastic. They were instantly attracted to each other. Both imagined their kids as gorgeous amalgamations of gorgeous people. He had a full head of hair and her breasts were real. It was a match made in Heaven. Good thing he wasn't aware of that.

The second date was better. Conversation was actually paid attention to amid a walk along the beach near the Santa Monica pier. She was from a healthy family; he was from a healthy family. The biological match was near perfect. Good thing he didn't mention that.

The third date... well... that's not going so well. Oh, sure, it started great. Typical courting process and all. A good movie followed by a good dinner (both are far too pragmatic to eat before a film... all those annoying bathroom breaks and the threat of audibly embarrassing bodily functions). Then a picnic under the stars on an undeveloped hill in Antelope Valley. Both loved to drive, even through Los Angeles traffic, so the commute North was simply a part of a romantic evening. Each of their last partners suffered from malicious road rage, but that's beside the point.

Anyway...

"Look at all those stars," she said. "God sure knows how to put us in awe of the night."

He spit out his wine, stifling a sarcastic laugh. "I'm sorry?"

"What?" she asked. "Did I say something funny?"

"I hope so."

"What?"

"You are joking, aren't you?"

And now we're caught up. Obviously, the cosmic shit just hit the metaphysical fan. I'm sure you've all heard how these conversations quickly devolve into insult-slinging mudfests, and this one is no different. I apologize for the soliloquizing, but I know I've heard this one far too many times. She's baffled that he doesn't believe in God... he seems so charming. He's dumbfounded that she does... she seems so educated. Clearly, something is lost in translation like a holy book from Greek to Latin.

Christian explanation followed by scientific explanation. Empiricist versus rationalist. Noah's Ark predated by Utnapishtim's Ark. Assumption versus evidence. It's a laugh. I'm laughing now. As you might be, depending on your perspectives. But I'm laughing. They're not. But then, they're the joke, aren't they?

It gets really funny when he starts calling her out on her Catholic beliefs. Funny how people within organizations tend to be ignorant of those organizations, isn't it?

"What do you mean you don't know what the Jesus cookies are called?" He sounds incredulous. He thinks he's checkmated her. She knows he's lost any chance of getting her panties off. Because, let's face it, Catholic or not, the third date is the sex date.

"Communion wafers?"

"Hosts. They're called hosts. What Catholic school did you go to?"

"You're an asshole."

"Oh," he says with a laugh, "the church girl is resorting to cussing at me. That's another thousand years of purgatory for you."

"Okay, monkey boy."

He rolls his eyes. "For the last fucking time, evolution does not state we came from monkeys. You theists always deny real truth. I suppose you've got a fucked up interpretation of the Big Bang, too."

"Do you even know who came up with the Big Bang theory?" She's tired of this, but somehow revels in it. Politics and religion, eh?

"Does it matter?"

"Sure, Mister Know-it-All. Georges Lemaître. A Catholic priest." There's a pause, then she inches closer to his throat. "Where's your logic now, jerk?"

"It's better than your magic."

"Shut the fuck up and take me home."

And that is the end of that. Now, being the narrator of this story and totally in control of this literary time-line, I can tell you that the fourth date went much better. Her angry silhouette among the stars really only turned him on even more. And his theological confusion only made her feel sorry for him.

I'm pretty sure their children wound up Buddhists.

Wish Her

Emotionally speaking, it had been a long, arduous summer preceded by a long, arduous winter. Career moves and lack of moves, temporary changes in scenery, stagnant education and writing progress, and even the multiple flea infestations from their multiple animals. Worse, both of their professions kept them apart most weekdays. He, a struggling artist whose business acumen didn't make him feel better; rather, it reminded him of more lucrative and less undesirable prospects. She, a rising star in both the art and corporate worlds whose lack of perceived stability didn't excite her; rather, it reminded her of a childhood lost.

To put it simply, everything was draining.

Weekends, however, were a different story. Sure, they'd both bring their trials and tribulations to the dinner table, which often was merely an order out of steak or pizza eaten nonchalantly on a torn couch in front of the television, but the perks were worth it. He could smell her, and she could imagine her very own Bruce Lee or John Lennon in person. She rarely wore perfume, but the natural scent of her skin combined with the arousing scent of whatever soap she used never failed to turn him on. He rarely exercised or exhibited any musicality, but his fairly frequent diversions into pretending to do a karate chop or compose a song for her never failed to make her smile, and perhaps laugh.

He missed her smile. It was the very first thing that drew him to her. It lit up a room like a fucking bonfire... or an atomic bomb. He wished she was there to share it with him. He wished a lot of things.

He wished she was there to watch their favorite television programs, usually some hell-bent drama centered on off-kilter male authority figures who showed little regard for the authority of others, but were damn good at their jobs. He wished she was there, and his increasingly full DVR drive reminded him of his longing almost constantly.

He wished she was there to cuddle and coddle their pets, a menagerie of misbehaving dogs and ridiculously apathetic cats who never ceased to amaze or befuddle either one of them. He wished she was there so he could show her the new and interesting ways their lazy cat, Sagremor, found to use his master's body as a pillow.

But most of all, he wished she was there so he could touch her, hold her, and push her away half-jokingly when she complained he wasn't rubbing her shoulders the way she wanted him to. He wished...

He just wished she was here.

What She's Got; What She Hasn't

I don't usually get involved in the extracurricular affairs of my girlfriend, but I am now. One of my girlfriend's friends decided to get into a spat with my lovely companion, and had the absolute gall to ask my girlfriend "What do you got?" as if this other girl was some sort of superior life form.

Well, let's just work our way through this, shall we? What does she got? Here's what:

1) A masters degree. No, two of them. And a bachelors degree. Oh, and an associates degree.

2) Job offers at two of the premiere Hollywood agencies. Because her education and work experience was attractive to high-level managers.

3) A car she paid for with her own money.

4) An earned-income approaching six figures.

5) Real tits.

6) The pride associated with never having given a blowjob for cheap drugs.

So, let's turn the tables. What does the other girl got?

1) High school diploma.

2) Job offers at, er... wait, no, she doesn't work.

3) A car her husband bought her.

4) An income her husband earns.

5) Distractingly bad over-sized fake tits. But at least she doesn't have to worry about drowning. So I guess artificial buoyancy is a plus.

6) The pride associated with never having given a... oh, wait... no, she doesn't.

And that just about sums it up.

Have a nice day.

The Gypsy Dancer

They were, unequivocally, both crazy. He, with his temper and his absolute refusal to do what someone might call plant roots. She, with her strange, new world mentality and the attitude that she is always two steps behind. A runner, and a chaser. Logically, a match made in Heaven. But, philosophically and in practice, a match made in Hell. Still, somehow, they endured.

His attitude stemmed from his upbringing, as most attitudes do. His father was, somewhat unnaturally, a purposeful journeyman. His mother, a foreign expatriate who came to America out of boredom. Quite obviously, his world perspective was no accident.

Her upbringing was far different. She came from a large, close-knit family. Even though she, too, was raised purposefully as an outcast, she never seemed to notice. It was merely her role in the clan, and that was how she saw it. Leaving her home never even crossed her mind.

Having one never even crossed his.

And then they met.

By pure chance, his vagabond nature had brought him to her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the smile, of the kind that lights up an entire room, that would forever change his life.

He was tentative in approaching her, and reflexively relied on his training to stalk and to spy on her, wanting to learn everything he could about her before he would speak to her. She was, he found, sad in ways that few ever experience. She blamed it on the people in her life and their actions, both voluntary and involuntary. Friends, family, and lovers were both there for her and had abandoned her. At least that's how she saw things.

To him, she simply didn't realize the disease that was incubating in her heart. The disease that is the desire to wander, to travel, to experience the world that one suspects exists beyond one's own perceptions, but expects to never see.

And so, despite several warnings, personal and professional, he took her with him.

At first she was hesitant. Scared of the sky, the sea, and the places beyond the horizons she grew up staring at. But the disease strengthened, and it became chronic, a permanent fixture of her psyche. She soon loved floating on the wind, experiencing new people and places, and all of the inhibitions her family instilled in her fell by the wayside, perhaps with a hint of guilt.

It was this guilt that prompted her to question where she was going; what she was doing. There was no plan, after all. She merely traveled with her new lover, who was, fundamentally, a stranger to her. A stranger in a strange land, led by a stranger from a strange land.

Her life with him was accompanied by meetings with mysterious people, his so-called friends and family. Behind his back, she would sift through his things and would often learn obscure facts about the histories and cultures of various regions of the world. She questioned where and why he learned what he learned, and knew what he knew. His answer was always the same. He liked to read.

It was a psychological dance. Her desire to know everything about him, and his necessity to keep things a secret. Often he would feed her clues. Hints and clues of who and what he was. But this only served to infuriate her. She wanted to know the truth. Only an angel would show the world to someone without expecting anything in return. But he did not believe in angels.

Ultimately, she adopted his secretive nature in an attempt to learn more about him. She asked questions she should not have asked, to people she should not have questioned. Frustratingly, the answers she received only led to more mystery, and the dance increased in tempo and ferocity.

Growing tired and sick of the mystery, she abandoned her attachment to him. This time, having already abandoned her own roots, it was easy to her. For now she knew what was hidden beyond the horizon.

And he watched. Watched as she moved through his body and away from his secrets. At once, he was happy for her and sad for himself. She had grown past all expectation, and the world was hers for the taking. A world he had meticulously influenced to protect those he loved, especially her.

Yes, she would flourish. And he would continue to watch.

No.

He would follow.

Only now it would be he whom was two steps behind. The silhouette of his gypsy dancing on the horizon, ready for whatever else the world had to offer her.

"Friends"

The Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines a friend as: "one attached to another by affection or esteem."

I, however, have a slightly different definition: "one that's there when needed or wanted."

Now, I may not be the best friend ever, but nobody can claim that I don't try. If someone needs a favor, I'll do what I can... if someone needs money, Ill lend it (or even give it) if I have some... if someone needs someone to lean on, I'm leaned on.

But... not everybody I know feels that way, and while I realize that this is purely subjective, that really pisses me off. I hear all the excuses all the time... "Im too busy" seems to be the popular one. BULL SHIT.

NOBODY is ever THAT busy. Sorry, just doesn't happen. As someone who worked on two separate degrees while working part-time AND getting ready to deploy to a foreign country, I am positive that being "too busy" doesn't happen. Yes, there are undoubtedly times in our lives in which we are overwhelmed, but they don't last... even when the entire world was fighting a war in the 40s, people had time for each other... and you expect me to believe that YOU'RE TOO FUCKING BUSY? Fuck you...

When someone you haven't seen in years is in town, you MAKE TIME. When a friend of yours needs some help, you MAKE TIME. When a hot, could-be-a model-actress walks into your bedroom and takes off her clothes, you MAKE TIME. Um... disregard that last one.

Another thing... when you say you're going to do something for someone, be it a favor, or a job, or even something trivial, DO IT. Don't delay, procrastinate, make excuses... just FUCKING DO IT. Or, at the very least, if you can't, TELL THEM "I CAN'T." Telling a friend "no" is much better than leading a friend on for days, weeks, years.

Example:

"John, can you contact Mary and get her to endorse this for me? It would really help me out."

"No."

And everybody fucking hates "fake friends."

Well, whatever... even I know that I'm no longer making any kind of sense, so I'll just shut up now. But those who know, know what I'm talking about.

"Okay, thanks anyway."

Even though that sucks, its much better than:

"John, can you contact Mary and get her to endorse this for me? It would really help me out."

"Sure."

TWO WEEKS LATER

"John, did you get a hold of Mary?"

"Not yet, I've been busy."

"John, I need that endorsed or I'll lose my promotion."

"I'll get on it."

TWO WEEKS LATER

"John... Mary?"

"Why the fuck cant you talk about something else?"

Don't laugh... that's actually happened to me...

...Several times...

Anyway, my point is that friends are only friends when they're LOYAL to each other. A lot of people hide behind the concepts of loyalty, but they're anything but. Hell, I've even got a "friend" on MySpace that pretends to preach loyalty, but won't give you the time of day unless in need of something from you... The irony is even furthered by the fact that this person has NEVER been loyal in a relationship. This is representative of a phenomenon more commonly known as "fake friends."