.

I've always heard it appropriate to end a love affair with the phrase, "It was nice to have met you." and walk away without a handshake or a kiss. I've done so on many occasions with all shapes and sizes of these animals we call 'men'. Because, as I have realized over the years, I, am a stupid girl. Not the stupid girl that doesn't get the punchline of an office joke. Not the stupid girl that only got by in highschool by schutupping her geometry teacher. In fact, it's difficult to place the words silly, ditzy, blond, etc. in a the same sentence with my name.
No, I'm the stupid girl who falls in love with men much older than herself, who also happen to have needy wives and children. But none of them, with their cigarette breath and kinky uses for me in bed, will ever be as disgusting to me as my current liaison. Why? Because he promises me so much more than the others did. And I know, deep down, that he really means it.
Lou says that life is one, long novel that we each write by our everyday actions. Easy for her to say, her life has overnight become more like a fairytale, with Prince Charming on a white steed and all.
Lou is my very best friend in all manners of the title. We have alot in common, she and I. For instance, neither of us prefer chunky peanut, we both hate The Who and adore Jim Morrison, and we both fit the profile for the common single, lovesick working woman, desperate for any sign of affection from the male species.
That is, until two weeks ago when Lou took up a one night stand she met at the club.
Whiskey, condoms, and drunken lust were all present in the guy's one bedroom flat that night. But the next morning, when their sober eyes saw each other for the first time, even the pounding hangover couldn't interfere with what was set in motion. Lou was in love.
Now, it'd been two whole weeks and neither of them were seeing anyone else. She assures me that they never will again, that this is the man she wants to marry. This is it, she says. This is what we've both been waiting for our entire pathetic lives. Then she reminds me for the 247th time that tonight is the night I get to meet this "prince charming", while she picks out her afro with a bubbling happiness that I've never seen present in her before. I wish I felt the same. I wish fate would throw me a bone. A bone without baggage, a bone without a pretty blond wife and baby..
I'm trying to be happy for Lou and.. what's his name, but I can't be happy for her without being reminded of just how miserable I am. Lou and I used to be like peas in a pod, crying over failed lovers and broken hearts. Now she's.. happy. It turns my stomach everytime she recounts that morning to me for the thousandth time with a glint in her eye and that huge grin of hers.
What kind of friend am I?
After zipping up her little black dress and popping me a kiss on the cheek, Lou hurries off to be a solicitor's secretary while I lope to the living room in my sweat pants and flop down in front of the television and sulk with a package of chocolate chip cookies.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. How could I be so selfish? Crunch, crunch, crunch. I should be happy for Lou and stop feeling so goddamn-
The phone rings, interrupting my morning cartoons and "beating myself up" session. I hesitate to answer and almost consider unplugging the thing. I'd never have to speak to another human being again maybe..
"Hello?", I say meekly into the receiver.
"I want to see you today.", came the reply.
It was Robert. Robert with the lovely chestnut eyes and thick, wavy hair. Robert who detests operas just as much as I do and would prefer Chinese takeout or pizza over a four course candle lit meal. Robert who makes me laugh at everything. Robert, who's intelligent, witty, kind and hysterical. Robert who always looks me directly in the eye when he makes love to me. Robert with the pretty blond wife and baby.
I didn't expect to hear from him again. Not since our row the day before last. They normally don't call after I slap them in public. Yet, here he is, calling me to ask if I'll meet him at the coffee shop in a half hour.
Without thinking, I whisper "okay" into the phone and hear the click on the other end as he hangs up.
Oh shit, what am I gonna wear?
I dash into the bedroom, tearing through the closet clumsily arranged with mine and Lou's clothes. Somehow, I decide to wear Lou's sleeveless, white, knee length dress, my knitted gray sweater and the pair of light brown suede boots we share. Shower? There's no time. I glop gingerbread scented lotion into my hand and vigorously scrub it into my not-so-perfect pale skin. After dressing, I pull my tangled hair into a messy French bun and inspect myself in the mirror just as the television in the other room taunts me with the line, "Maybe she's born with it.. ".I contemplate wearing makeup. Then I remember that he doesn't like me in makeup.
I check the clock, grab my bag and lock the door behind me without turning off the television.

Pour être continué

Merinthophobia.

Tonight is the night for bad decisions. Like fucking a married man in a subway station bathroom. I've wanted extreme for a long time. Drastic measures to call attention. I've spent too many nights watching couples sillouetted by their lace bedroom curtains, wondering how good it could be. I've laid awake some nights invisioning life as a bird, everflying. Free. Tonight, I'm going to burn a house down and imagine that the moon is howling back at me. Expression is a timely thing.

Untitled.

I'm lonely when you're around. My brain has mismatched emotions that I should be feeling. The wrong circuits are lighting up. Or maybe, I've just forgotten how to not feel alone.
I could blame you. You're frazzled, involuntary, quiet. You aren't the savior I expected you to be.
I lock myself in my car sometimes with a bottle of vodka. The musky smell of the dark garage doesn't seep into my skin like the spirit does. I could stay there for hours. I don't think. Because if I think, I might turn the keys in the ignition and drive away from the dark garage, the missing love letters and you.
When we lie together at night, the silence is shattering and yet somehow, it's fulfilling. My hair clings to my neck in the sticky heat of the dark and it comforts me. I'm still human. I take a draw from the lit cigarette and pass it to you without acknowledging your presence. You're always there, yet you never are.
It's moments like this when I contemplate suicide. It doesn't seem like such a difficult feat to wrap my lips around the barrel of a pistol and pull the trigger. It's moments like this when I realize I wouldn't miss you.

The Kitchen Fire.

The sizzle and popping of hot grease sounds from the kitchen as though the center of her world were on fire. And though her face and manner are both cool, inside, mountains are falling.
Her name had been replaced long ago; it was almost as if she didn't exist anymore. She's still as delicate and ghostly in figure as she had been 7 years ago, but her eyes had hardened. These 7 years had made her quiet, careful with the words she said.
But today was a different day. Today, she had decided not to speak at all.

The screen door slams and her heart skips a beat. Suddenly, she was in fear of soda cans and mismatched socks. Footsteps, the steel toe boot kind. Then, a chair screeches across the linoleum floor, but she doesn't turn to look. He's speaking, calling her by the name he'd replaced her identity with. She can't hear what he's saying for the pounding of her heart beneath her chest.
Needles thrust up into the pads of her feet and her stomach begins flopping sickly. She can't think for the burning in her forehead until she finally turns to fix her eyes on his back as he sits and eats.
Her legs move without her consent, gliding across the room. She feels the coolness of the utensil burning in her hand. Above his head, on the wall, is hung a plaque that reads "Jesus is the silent listener to every conversation." If only life could be that serene.
"Today is the day.", she says.
"What the hell you talkin' about, woman?".
Without thought or command, as though action is all that's demanded, she raises her right hand and thrusts the carving knife into the back of his neck, eight times.
His body seizes violently until it finally releases and his face falls into the plate of food before him, blood pooled all around it.
She hears the knife drop as it clatters onto her prided kitchen floor. Then, leans over and vomits where she scrubbed on her hands and knees just days before. She stands, walks to the sink and turns on the tap to wash her face and hands.
For the last time, she watches blood swirl with water as it dances down the drain. Except this time, it's not her blood.