Every few months, I feel the need to dump out my room like a night-stand junk drawer, purging it of everything but the essentials. It gets depressing when I don't keep up with it. Kind of like a graveyard for failed plans and unrealized dreams.
(more) The unfortunate consequence of this cleansing ritual is that it makes way for the introduction of countless new half-baked and never-to-be-achieved aspirations. After you've been through the cycle a few times, it starts to feel like this endless conveyor belt of fruitlessness is the very fabric from which we weave the tapestry of our lives.
But it's better to keep cleaning. Otherwise these four walls begin to close in on you. The memorabilia collect on the shelves and walls like cobwebs. The space starts to feel rather like a mausoleum commemorating a beautiful life that I never had.
If you don't air the place out once in awhile, the weight of those things bearing down around the room is enough to suffocate you. (less)
Him: She is kind of pretty. She might be too young though. Oh, no. Now that I see her laugh. She has tiny lines around her eyes. Got to be over thirty-five. She's kind of loud.
Her: He is way too old for me. Get a load of that brown suit. Ha! Who picked out those frames? Napoleon Dynamite? Ugh! A pinkie ring? Pretty eyes though. Does he think I'm pretty? He is rather distinguished. If only he didn't dye his hair.
Well, it was nice to meet you. I have to go find my seat.
Yeah. Me too.
Him: I don't know. She is pretty though. I wonder why she got divorced. She seems open enough. But she laughs so loud. Really loud. She might be too immature. I hope she doesn't think I'm too old for her. I am going to kill the person who talked me into dying my hair. She couldn't take her eyes of my head. She must think I'm an old letch.
Her: His hands were huge! I feel him still staring. Man! Is he trying to bore holes into the back of my head. Nope. He isn't staring at my head. He's pretty old though. He has to be at least fifty. We would look silly together. And that hair. Why did I laugh so stinkin' loud? What was so funny? He must think I'm a dork.
Trembling fingers around the stem of a cold wine glass, I cautiously observed you from under my fringe. You laugh loudly, lost in the anecdote your companion was telling, you're the life of the room.
You fascinate me, I've never seen anyone move as gracefully as you do,(more) and whose mannerisms are gentlemanly as your own. Intimidated, I fold myself into the corner of the room. All the times we've been in the same room, breathing the same air, listening to the same band; I can't find my courage.
And so, here I find myself again, staring into the bottom of nearly empty glass. There are about 50 people in this bar, but you're the only one I can see. The alcohol warms my throat as I down the last of the red liquid, ready to take one last glance at you.
And then you catch me gaze. You seem to move in slow motion and fly towards me , all at the same time. Then here we are, your arms proposing an embrace, I readily accept.
"Hi," you say, "The band told me you'd be here. Wonderful to finally meet you."
My breath is taken away, and in that moment - I just know.(less)
"Oh hey!" she said. "This is my friend from back home, Kate. And this is my boyfriend, Jay. Now, someone pass the chips!"
Jay called it 'the introduction' when he remembered it many years later. It was over in a few seconds but it changed everything.
For the res(more)t of the party he couldn't take his eyes off of Kate. Even when Susan dragged him over to the television to watch an exciting replay, Kate was right there watching it at the same time. It was infuriating because it seemed like she wouldn't leave but he also didn't want her to leave.
Finally he stepped into the kitchen for some fresh air, but Kate soon found him and leaned nonchalantly against the counter. "I didn't get to talk to you much when Susan introduced us..." she trailed off, picking at a spot of peeling nail polish on her index finger.
The introduction, Jay thought. If only Susan hadn't shoved us together. But it wasn't as if she had meant for them to connect in such a way. She had just wanted to be polite.
Kate looked up at him again, and he ached to touch her, to trail a thumb across her soft cheek. Attempting to banish the thoughts, he shook his head, but by then it was too late. Her silken voice had sealed the deal.
Kate took a couple small steps to him, her hand catching his and holding it at the counter, leaning closer and finally kissing him. Jay's eyes widened and he tried to move away, or to push Kate back, but she was insistent, and honestly, he was lost. He couldn't even remember Susan until he heard her voice at the kitchen door.
"Really, Kate? Another one?" Susan's voice sounded dead, all metal and ice.(less)
An embryonic smile forming under yellow seafoam waves of cells and bellies. A dehydrated mouth of a mother who wraps her hair with twine and scrubs a floor with pine. Her fetal dreams aborted at the sight of a plus sign. Blistered hands scrub away doubt as the bump(more) becomes a sphere. Sterile walls of white and pastel hospital gowns will not white out the darkness of needles numbing spines. This should be beautiful. This should be natural.
Like the dawning of a brand new sun, that has lived a thousand years. The plush uterine cushion balancing a head that will soon begin to crown and breathe the earth's fresh breath. Scarlet skin scars the body of its giver. Brand new hearts and a brand new liver. Tears splash the eyes of the old soul and new, as they meet their everlasting home; the atmosphere of blue.(less)
Here I am today, in front of my parents. I need to tell them. I know they will never be ok with that, but I don't care. I cannot hide it anymore. I'd prefer to never talk to them, but know that they know than see them everyday, but(more) hide this secret.
As I'm more nervous than ever, I look my parents right in the eyes, and tell them in a confident voice:
"Here's Damian. He's my boyfriend".
I had just introduced my boyfriend to my extremely homophobic parents. The worst was now behind me. My dad looks at Damian and tells him happily:
"Welcome in our family".
Nothing else. But it's enough for me. I understood. For the first time, he overpassed his own values for our relationship. For the first time, I see acceptation in their look. (less)
Henry--or the Blackbird, as he's called on these midnight escapades--pries open the window. It's suprisigly easy to open, considering the disuse of this wing of the house. He doesn't even have to try, like it was left open. Henry crawls in, stepping on the cushioned windowsill. No dust explodes(more) from the contact, and room smells like lavender soap instead of must and mothballs.
The room is dark but looks, for all intents and purposes, like someone lives there. There's a lamp on the dresser across from the window, illuminating a line of lavishly bejeweled bottles and a flask. The drawers are all closed, but some clothing is showing from the closed drawers. The sheets on the beds are pulled back, the pillows arranged precisely, and there is a dip in the mattress. The door to Henry's right is half-open, even if there is no light under the door.
Henry is confused--he was sure to do his research, and not end up in the servants' quarters. Then again, the room is too nicely decorated to be a servant's lodge. The Blackbird part of Henry is infuriated. This part of the house was supposed to be abandoned.
He takes a cautious step into the room, the smooth material of his form-fitting suit sliding against his skin. Henry looks around and creeps to the door--its size and simple brass doorknob suggest a bathroom door. The other one is larger, with a mahogany frame and a crystal doorknob.
There are footsteps on the other side of the door, and Henry barely moves out of the way in time to evade a hit to the face. A boy--he can't be any more than 15--turns on Henry. His ice-blue eyes almost glow in the dark. "Who the hell are you?" he asks, voice trembling. (less)
She saw him staring, a distant look in his eyes, a small smile sitting on his face. He was looking at her, as if she was the most amazing woman in the world, as if she had blown him away...
That couldn't have been true, though. That almost(more) seemed ridiculous...after all, they had only met ten minutes ago and she was far from breathtaking and beautiful.
"Is it that amazing?" She questioned.
"Huh?" He was thrown out of his thoughts. "What?"
"The time-rip, what that professor guy was calling an anomaly? That is what you've been staring at, yeah?"
"Oh! Yeah, yeah, totally," Connor grinned. "Me name's Connor Temple, pleasure to meet you."
And that was the introduction. An introduction to a long-lasting friendship and maybe the most amazing romance the two of them had ever had...(less)
When you first meet him, he holds out his hand stiffly. He doesn't really seem to be looking at you, but rather at the spot just above your left shoulder. You get the urge to stand on tippy-toes so that you can meet his eye. You smile. He smiles(more) as well, but it seems that he is thinking of "smiling" as a step in an algorithm, rather than an expression of pleasure.
You give him your name. He doesn't give you his, but it seems to be out of absent-mindedness, like he forgot that you you haven't met before. It's okay, though, because the friend who gave him your number told you his name. "I think you two will hit it off." she had said.
His gaze has moved to your right shoulder. You say, "So, where are you from?" He tells you in a single word.
You say, "What do you do?" He tells you.
You say, "What kind of music do you like?" He's not very into music, he says.
You order your food and sit down. He is examining the table.
You say, "I'm so hungry I could eat a horse." He abstains from any comment.
Your food comes, and you talk more as you eat. You finish first, but he is still not even halfway done. So you watch him eat. Without waiting for him to ask you, you tell him about your hometown, your favorite band, that you hope to be a writer someday. You explain the rules of Settlers of Catan. You describe your fourth grade teacher in perfect detail.
Finally, he finishes, and you say good-bye with another hand-shake. He has not looked at your face once.
When your friend asks how it went, you are at a loss for what to say. (less)
I remember meeting all these people. Six months have passed and you are all so different. Some of you are better and some of you are worse. And I hate that, I hate that I can never tell how a person is going to be with me. I hate(more) discovering people and their habits and quirks and watching them grow. Mostly because as they become better, maturer people, I'm going backwards. I'm shrinking into myself, away from them. I used to be shy, but fun, a listener but a conversationalist. Now I'm awkward, extremely introverted, anxious and you'll all upset with me. I can't help how I act when fear takes over me, which is always. We are all so different to six months ago. Can we go back to the introductions?(less)