Scenes -- III

Bristly white hair sprawled across his head. There was a gap between his two front teeth, which let out bursts of jokes. "Italians don't get mad," he said, "we get even." 

"Niceness is overrated," she told him. 

He looked straight into her eyes, sending out little sparks of mischief from behind his glasses. "You're right," he said, and he meant it, knowing she did, too.

She knew right then that she would share many laughs with this man. That she would look at those shoulders slumping forward in that turquoise sweater. That she would love every gravely joke.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night

[I won't be reading your writings anymore, but keep writing, because you are great.]

Because I love it every time:

Scenes -- II

She blasted through the door with a burst of cold air and frenetic energy. As usual, her hair was held partially back by a woven teal headband. The hair not held in place stuck out at all angles. She wore her old New Balance running shoes, a pair of leggings, and a hooded sweatshirt that went midway down her thighs. 

She looked at the girl at the counter and said, "You look like you've been working hard."

The girl knew this was not a compliment. It wasn't a comment about the girl's work ethic or long hours. It was a comment about the bags under her eyes and the haggard hanging of her hair. 

"I'm sorry I don't look as good today," she said to the woman.

"What?"

"I said -- I'm sorry that I'm not looking so good today."

"Oh, well, that's okay," the woman said as she looked the girl up and down. "You usually look refreshed, but we're all human."

Scenes -- I

His fingers shook as he placed the key in her hand. She loved the slight tremor of his hands and felt it was a little secret they shared. He knew that she knew that he wasn't as tough as he once was. 

"I always mean to tell you that you look very pretty," he said as he looked up from their hands to her face.

"Thank you, Walter," she said, "you are so kind."

"Well, it's true."

"Well, thank you. You made just my day."

And he had.

I hope he knows

I have to tell myself terrible things.

I had to tell myself
he
never
loved
me
so many times
to scar my heart
and steel myself
and find the energy to get out of bed.
I wanted to tell myself
he
loves
me
he will come back
he will read me a bedtime story
and everything will be love again
but he doesn't
and he won't
and it isn't
and that is terrible
to know and to utter.

But it is the only way.

the terrible thing

If something were to happen to my Friend,

I would grieve so much how he grew to hate me,

and I would wish so helplessly that I could have said goodbye,

and all the love we talked about would be a memory -- 

not of love, but of love that was not; 

love that was faked and then taken back and utterly denied. 

I believed it wholeheartedly, but that didn't make it real. 

And that is the most terrible thing, or maybe that's the saving grace. 

Because I would always remember that it wasn't real, 

so I would always be able to tell myself that I hadn't lost anything at all.