His and Hers
His day starts like any other, shower, fix cereal with berries, read the newspaper. Lately they don’t talk. That’s what 20 years will do for you. What is there new to learn? Continue reading
“So, you come here often?” I think of saying.
No, no, no! That’s his line.
I peer at him in a way I think is stealthy but maybe not because when I look forward I see him smirking at me in the mirror behind the bartender. My face flushes. I do a mental “face-palm.” I stare at my rum and coke as if I thought it were going to grow wings and miraculously fly or sow seeds for red poppies. You never know. Well, you do. We both know THAT’S not going to happen.
Him. I know. Only because we’ve ended up here every Friday for two months. He sits there and orders an IPA, one single IPA, which I personally think tastes like drinking perfume without the nice scent. I have caught on that he’s a public defender, which is kind of cool, looking out for the poor, the trodden on, making a difference. Me, well, I like to think I’m a public defender for cats and dogs and bunnies and sometimes snakes, erg. Snakes. But snakes are creatures too. I have to keep telling myself that. I still can’t handle them well. I’ve been bitten a couple of times, fortunately by the non-poisonous varieties, but still it hurts, bad. I always think that their fangs must be akin to Dracula and then I wonder how all of those vampire-fangirls imagine that sex with a vampire is fun.
I’m still focused on the rising bubbles in my glass when I think I become aware that he’s turned to me. Ha. I can pull one out of his bag of tricks and I look up at the mirror. He is looking at me. Is it because I have something on the side of my face? No. I went to the ladies’ room before I sat down. I looked fine. Or did I? Did I miss something?
“I hope you don’t think this is forward,” he begins. “But I’ve noticed you order a different cocktail each time you come in here.”
I look at him for the first time ever face to face, eyes viewing eyes and, man, his eyes. Chocolate brown, sparkling.
Am I supposed to respond to that?
We both gaze at each other.
He seems to shake himself out of some stupor. “Why?” he asks.
“Why a different cocktail?”
“Because I want to try something new to see if I like it.”
He nods and then turns back toward his IPA and I feel deflated. Is that all? It that all this is going to be?
Am I going to let this go?
“Why an IPA every time?” I ask.
He grins. “Because I like it so why try something I might not like?”
My body is turned toward his on the barstool. I suddenly feel like my black mini might be a tad too mini, or maybe not. He looks over my legs. He grins as he sips his beer.
The bartender shakes his head at us. I laugh. It’s not going so well tonight.
The karaoke begins behind us. A woman sings “Imaginary Lover.”
Colin finishes his IPA, stands and put his arm around my shoulders, kisses me on the corner of my mouth. “We should get home. I only booked the babysitter for two hours.”
I kiss him full on. It’s always like the first time.
end 2/12/2017 (oops, not Saturday anymore)
I put on my coat, glance at you, but stupor glazes your eyes. There’s no way you’ll say: stay. There’s no compromise. We’ve found the end or it found us after such a long, long time with me so hopeful for a lot of it. Stay. Stay. I expect the words. They don’t come. You never gave emotions freely. You’d offer certain commitments then back off. Stay. Stay. The wind chimes dance erratically and I brace for the cold, pull my coat tighter against me. Stay. Stay. I sling my purse over my shoulder. The cold hugs me.
To participate in Stream of Consciousness Saturday and learn the rules, click here.
There are days when I fall in love with you and days when I fall out of love with you, sometimes within minutes of each other, the same emotion, differently held. I think about you when you’re not here, worry when you should have called and haven’t. Then you’ll say something oblivious and I wonder what it is I’ve done. Years one can never retrieve. Anger in my lungs, heart, ears, but not in words, mostly. Sometimes those are as cutting as a very sharp knife always too late to grab them back. But life’s like that, I suppose. It’s not an all love all the time radio station. It’s all stupid emotions all the time. The good thing is that mostly we laugh and it’s the laughter that carries us through our days.
(Might have to give this one another try on another day.)
I thought it would be easy, coming here today, your wedding with her. Who was I kidding? I’m cowering somewhere in the back of the church in my too tight, too high shoes wishing I was up there with you. But I’d never wear that dress. What is she dressed for? Playboy Bunnies weddings? Her boobs look like they’ll pay a visit any time now. And what’s with that short dress? Did they run out of material?
Okay. I’m being judgmental. I know this. I slump farther down into the pew as if wish it would absorb me. I am an awful human being. There. I’ve said it.
You called me judgmental. You said I had snarky words for everyone and maybe it was true. Okay. It was one-hundred-percent true. But that’s the way I was raised. A cop-out, but true. My mother never met a person she didn’t love to hate.
You look handsome. Every time I’d ever seen you in a suit it was for a wedding or a funeral and here you are now at a wedding. Your wedding.
Here it comes: does anyone know why so and so should not marry so and so.
Me, me, me, bloody me.
You look around and your eyes land on me. Crap. Did you just raise an eyebrow?
I jump up. Everyone looks at me, including you. That’s when I realize that maybe you hadn’t glanced my way at all.
I smile. “Oops. Tights just riding up a bit,” I say and then slink back down into the hard, hard pew. My face is flushed and I want to disappear.
If there was anything I could do to turn this moment around. Oh, what nonsense. You had your chance. If you’d had a change of heart or if I’d been willing to admit I was wrong.
I was wrong.
“I was wrong!”
end (5) 10/22/2016
Here are the rules:
1. Your post must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing, (typos can be fixed) and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.
2. Your post can be as long or as short as you want it to be. One sentence – one thousand words. Fact, fiction, poetry – it doesn’t matter. Just let the words carry you along until you’re ready to stop.
3. There will be a prompt every week. I will post the prompt here on my blog on Friday, along with a reminder for you to join in. The prompt will be one random thing, but it will not be a subject. For instance, I will not say “Write about dogs”; the prompt will be more like, “Make your first sentence a question,” “Begin with the word ‘The’,” or simply a single word to get your started.
4. Ping back! It’s important, so that I and other people can come and read your post! For example, in your post you can write “This post is part of SoCS:” and then copy and paste the URL found in your address bar at the top of this post into yours. Your link will show up in my comments for everyone to see. The most recent pingbacks will be found at the top. NOTE: Pingbacks only work from WordPress sites. If you’re self-hosted or are participating from another host, such as Blogger, please leave a link to your post in the comments below.
5. Read at least one other person’s blog who has linked back their post. Even better, read everyone’s! If you’re the first person to link back, you can check back later, or go to the previous week, by following my category, “Stream of Consciousness Saturday,” which you’ll find right below the “Like” button on my post.
6. Copy and paste the rules (if you’d like to) in your post. The more people who join in, the more new bloggers you’ll meet and the bigger your community will get!
7. As a suggestion, tag your post “SoCS” and/or “#SoCS” for more exposure and more views.
8. Have fun!