twisting (november 4, 2008).

More stuff, courtesy of a 20 year old Ashley.

---

Carol sat nestled into the worn synthetic cushion of aisle seat 3B.  She flipped nonchalantly through August’s copy of Good Housekeeping, although it was already November.  Every so often, she would adjust her bifocals, intent on gaining better insight into ‘Homes, Gnomes, and Garden Décor.’ She sighed as the other passengers boarded around her.

Fifty-six years had been unkind to Carol’s body.  Her face was weathered from the sun, and her skin bore liver spots she could not remember having in her youth.  The lines beside her eyes tugged downward in a sad and deliberate sort of way, and when she smiled, her teeth were yellow from many years of coffee and tobacco.

 She hadn’t always been this way.  She married Sal when she was only nineteen.  Thirty-seven long years later, she was boarding a plane from Cincinnati headed towards Detroit, while Sal basked in the sun down in Boca Raton. She absentmindedly twirled her wedding band between sandy, worn fingers.

He arrived suddenly and without warning, like a hurricane of wit and charm.  His baseball cap was set high up above his brow, allowing the dim cabin lighting to dance across his twenty-something-year-old face.  Around his neck he was a worn silver piece in the shape of a cross, hanging haphazardly against his chest.  Though it was merely fifty-seven degrees outside, he was dressed in green canvas shorts and ancient black flipflops, with only a thin white t-shirt to shield his torso.  He glanced quickly around the snug interior of the tiny plane.

“I think I lucked out.  I’ve got the window seat,” he said finally, addressing Carol with a smile.

Carol leaned forward impulsively to move into the aisleway, but she was stopped by the cool wave of a hand.

“I’ve got it.  No need to move your pretty little feet,” he spoke brightly, surprising Carol with the lightness of his words.

Swiftly and with a grave Carol had never seen, he scooted over and past her, settling down into the faux-leather beside the window.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said, twisting his body to face her.  The smile he flashed was crooked and endearing, but the expression was honest and expectant.  Carol chuckled aloud, and she felt the deadness in her chest jumpstart to life.

richard's duality and the sunflower (2006 throwbacks).

I found my old high school blog. It's embarrassingly bad, but I need to archive all that badness someplace. So here goes:


richard's duality
shackle upon shackle
trading sweet, honey whispers
for ball and chain;
for illiterate moments;
for bitter but sweet
coffeecake kisses.
he’ll break you if he can,
from the walk
to the dress
to the sidewalk
until there’s sick in your hands
and your mouth and your hair.

day after day
pricing marketplace smiles
worth two dollars;
worth ten;
worth only what the
courting fools will pay.
they’ll bargain if they can,
from the door
to the street
to the vendor,
and when there’s nothing left to buy,
go home to their wives.


the sunflower.
there’s a sunflower dying
by the side of the road.
i watched it wither.
it was mighty at first
with radiant golden petals
but soon it browned with age.
neck stretching to the sky,
and face upturned towards the sun,
it was absorbent,
but didn't hold its tears.
faded, it falls –
crippled and worthless
as the season wears on.
i water it with saline,
fingers crossed,
fertilizing it with the blood
from my own two hands.
but still, it dies.

worth it.

panting tongues and hearts that slam like a screen door in a storm laying quietly so still and the sound of rain pouring against a tin roof.  ratatat ratatat.  under a worrisome stare you say "should we have locked the cellar door?" unwrapping the red dress like a birthday gift and the pressure of your torso is a mountain on mine.  where have you been if not here i wonder who is your mother and do you like your coffee black.  i must be thirsty or it must be winter because the back of my throat is dry.  a souvenir on your keychain shaking when you stir and it's time to go somewhere else home to her and aprons with paisley print and banana nut muffins in the basket on the counter. idling in the driveway your whirring engine humming vibrating our sins into your sternum.  she is buttoned to you but i, i am a wild pitch and it's not til july that i think of you again.

angry knocking tearing clawing fingers ruining my door.  a feral scream.  wild wild wild eyes peeping through the curtained window wide with rage with pain with thirst. i will her away but she never goes and i wonder if she is a ghost or a demon or termites in my basement and attic eating the floors and walls and everything holding me up, holding me together.  a brick through the window ought to do it she thinks and suddenly boom pow smash glass.  she asks if your thin lips and sad eyes were worth it, worth the sharpness under my feet and police on my lawn. i doubt myself but i say i know they were because her fury states your value. and so when you call and say please i say yes and we do.

unhappy mouth.

so sorry
about your unhappy mouth
deceptively captivating curves
drawing my eyes
to them and back and them and back.
but then i find.
trickery, treachery, deceit.
small lips. dry.
gum-to-teeth ratio
not quite right.
so different than
mine. mine which are
made for movement,
for sliding against.
open. close. your tongue is
slimy, stiff, sad.
'goodnight,ihadagoodtime.'
i say with a voice not my own
and your miserable mouth grins
its toothsome grin.
'i'llcallyou' you spit
then slip away,
slithering like a snake
back to your ugly Corolla
leave me standing
at my door.
i lose your number.
kissing you was a drag.

on needing space.

[ [ a work in progress ] ]

The first time you have a disagreement, it will be because you ask him for advice that you don't want to hear.  He'll spread his honesty around like tear gas and, have no doubts: it will choke you.  Pretend that his insensitivity is endearing.  Pretend it's part of what you like so much about him.  Pretend you're okay with the word "idiot" sitting at the tip of your tongue. You'll take your three #deepbreaths and sip your guava juice to avoid confrontation.

Lower your glass.  Here it comes:  Getawayfrommeyoustupidass. Howcouldyousaythat? Leavemealone. Ineedsomespace. And there it is.  Live.  In the air.  Soundwaves of regret the second you said it.  Did you mean it? Of course you meant it.  GIVEMESPACEDAMNIT.

But maybe come back later?  I still want to cuddle.

pause.

fall into the sheets that are slightly damp with sweaty remnants of the last hour.  burrow your face into the crevice between his chin and his collarbone, and wonder if it's true what they say about oxytocin and sex.  consider if you will offend him should you move your deadened left arm.  close your eyes and focus on the  u p d o w n  of his chest as he breathes steadily into a soft slumber.

outside, a late night train rumbles past.  free your arm as he stirs.  let worry set in as the moon arches high in the night sky.  recognize the feeling of panic setting in your chest, hear the what-ifs and what-nows creeping into that toxic mind of yours, urging your voice to rise.  ask if he's okay. (he says he is.)

talk about superhero powers and read him poetry from the book on your night stand.  it's dark in the room but know he's staring at the odd curve of your mouth and the knots cascading through your hair. note the way it makes your skin feel electric against the bedsheets.  pull away when he wraps his legs around yours. pull away because you're afraid that if he's touching you he'll hear the apprehension rattling around in your head.  feel him reach for your hand.

pause.

recall the map of footsteps that led you to the wrong beds of the wrong men time and again. remind yourself that for twenty-six years, pulling has done nothing but isolate you.  fight the urge to compare this moment to the hundreds that came before it.  you are not a time traveller. this is new and he is different somehow but you can't explain it and shouldn't try.

study the increasingly familiar shape of his body.  notice the scar beside his left eye, the long fingers of an artist, the constellation of freckles across his chest, illuminated by the moonlight.  hear how his voice pitches and lingers, sticking to the syllables of your name like thick molasses.  listen as your heartbeat hastens - the cadence beneath your ribcage a symphony of affection, beating notes of comfortable madness into your busy brain.  know that this is real and certain and good.

his fingers settle into the space between yours.

unpause.

let them.

crossed and dotted

another one i can't quite wish to lose.. not mine.

Crossed and Dotted

If I could write you a letter, I would
and I would write it with wire and string
so that when I sent it,
it would slowly unravel
and kink
and bend itself into knots around careless fingers
and memories turned jailbirds
flying to Cozumel but lost in highway-side diners
and the gabled lofts of old barns.

And when it finally reached you,
a whole day would be spent
untangling the intertwining jots and jabs
and picking through the bent mesh grill for scraps of tickets
to rusted-out Ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds.
Two children rapt with attention
and miles of tin-can telephone line,
we would start, one of us at either end -
you steadily leveling-out and me all coils and curls -
tripping and twisting, slowly in concert.

Then, and only then,
could we truly set this mess straight
and start to build
that fragile, immeasurable bridge between us;
the one that expands and contracts as we breathe
and trembles in our laughter,
but mostly sways as we walk together miles and miles apart.

not mine.

Not written by me.  I found this and I want to save it somewhere.. here seems appropriate.

Follow

The one that got away

I did not follow

somewhere across a sea

rust-red

with dried blood.

The one that took hook, line, sinker,

rod, reel, arm, wrist, hand, shoulder

swallowed me whole

            without breaking stride

or whatever it is the 'big ones' do

that leaves you standing slack-jawed on the shore

That trick of light on the skin

the shimmer-glide through the water

            just beneath the surface

that draws the eye somewhere beyond itself

and drowns it in desire

Open palmed

I stretch across the glittering waves

that hold a darkness I well know.

But eyes see only light or absence of it.

And even inland I still see the glimmer

            of her body as it flits away

shining in my misery

drowning in my blindness

july 13, 2006

18 year old ashley was strange. just thought i should tell you.  and you.  and you and you and you.
----------------------------------------------

it was a mistake, most certainly, for so few great things come planned. quiet, quiet, quietly i whisked my scarf around my neck and crept through the slit between the door and its frame.

and i was out. the cool air danced, nipping at my cheeks and eyelids - it was brisk, slicing, vicious. rubber to the road, i ran, adidas sneakers in a whirl beneath me. it was away i craved.. and away i went.

headlights flashed in either direction, but rarely. it brought me there – it was the moonlight again. my destination. the water ahead and below me was inviting. i jumped! free-falling, falling, falling. seafoam all around me. wrists bound. scarlet fluttering. and burning, burning lungs.

infinitesimal.

The humid air coils and curls around my body, tickling my skin and strangling my lungs.  I wheeze an asthmatic’s wheeze, obediently taking in as much of the thick air as I can.   Shifting my weight onto my heels, I toy with the idea of sitting down in the old wooden Adirondack chair, under the assumption that being indoors would be infinitely worse.

It only takes him three minutes and half a glass of tart, unpasteurized apple juice to get to the point.  He is dying and I shouldn’t worry.  He hands me a brochure.

I reach for my inhaler, panting now, wondering how I could have been so stupid.  He is dying, but with a capital D, and I remember why I’ve avoided magic shows for all my life.  Disappearing (also with a capital D) scares me, and I know that’s what happens when you Die.

The cancer had metastasized, they’d said.  It was aggressive, they’d said.  He’d beaten it, they’d said.

And now, here it is, a poison stitching itself into the sides of his liver, his bones, his brain matter. Here it is, making a fool of us for being so happy, for being so hopeful.   It is laughing at us as it digs its way through his body, tearing him from the inside out. 

Miles away, I hear words like “whole brain radiation” and “malignant” and “last resort” but they are just words.  They are the same as “bird” and “cupboard” and “mattress” but with more venom and less softness.  My breathing steadies as the Albuterol kicks in. 

He keeps saying words I refuse to understand.  Hospital. Stage IV.  Terminal.  I hate the words and I hate him for becoming Dead and my eyes begin to sting.  I don't cry but I do crush a caterpillar with the toe of my boot, making him Dead too.  I am immediately sorry for it.

The day they had said "Remission" and meant it, we celebrated.  We took turns reciting e.e. cummings poems and eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon.  We drank wine until I danced too much and threw up in a wastebasket.

That day, we were "in the clear" - we were "smooth sailing" - we were a million other clichés that make little sense but everyone understands.  He was a Fighter.  He had Survived.  That day, he was Alive.

But now, he is Dying.  He is Dying, and I tear the brochure into infinitesimal pieces as he speaks.  I study the shreds.  They look like snowflakes, haphazardly strewn across the table.  I will them to melt. It doesn't work because paper is not snow and I am not stupid, so I expect this.

I realize that I never read the brochure.  I try to piece the shreds back together with shaking fingertips.  It doesn't work because the pieces are too small and my hands are too big.   I notice chips in the red polish I once thought looked brave but now looks broken.  I keep trying.  I try until I've ruined every last shred and chipped every nail.

It's all I can do to keep from Dying myself.

right away.

quick prose //

she was a wild thing.  her hair was unkempt and her shoes were almost always untied.  everyday, she wore button-down shirts - artifacts from a litany of relationships turned sour. he noticed right away the crow's feet flanking her eyes - the skin that folded and crinkled when she smiled - building a landscape he'd never seen on a face before.  it reminded him of the way a river broke into streams at its mouth, creating tiny flowing veins of water that pulsed and coursed their way to the ocean.

daily, she poured over crossword puzzles that she would never solve.  he wore mismatched socks that bore holes in the big toe, considering them too loved, too well-worn to ever throw away.  their initial exchanges appeared quiet, unassuming.  but from that first day, when she tripped on the frayed lace that dangled from her shoe like a spindly vine off the side of a tree, he knew that his life would be less full without her in it.

they didn't listen to the same music, or read the same books.
she couldn't commit to anything but herself.
he had a girlfriend he sometimes loved.

he tried to be good, but it seldom took shape.  at night, he'd lay in bed, beside his girlfriend who dozed peacefully with her back to his, but his thoughts drifted back to her.  he'd remember the night they had not-so-harmlessly sat across from one another, his breath: a haze of alcohol, and her sleepy eyes: lulling him with their boozy gaze.  they'd taken an empty train home that night, both swimming in a liquor-induced lust.  an hour of mechanical clicks and clanks served to do nothing but heighten their fondness of one another.  he chewed on what was happening, knowing his badness.  but her lips parted over her teeth, and her laugh danced across them in such a way that he yearned to inhale it.  the consequences of such a strange affair would prove heavy, he knew and yet her happy mouth eased his conscience.

not all love, they knew, would become the stuff of legend.  sometimes, it sustained itself only for brief moments, tucked between otherwise bittersweet hours and late-running trains.  this - this type of love - she knew she could do.. he knew he could do.  he, with wide, dark eyes and musician's fingers; she with an unnagging voice and infectious laugh - they loved each other right away.  

tiny wreckage.

i had first read his poem in a cold, dank room in the middle of a miserable building.  cockroaches scuttled across the floor with a sense of urgency but no real direction, and i empathized with them.  the air in the room was musty and stale, reminiscent of ancient mothballs and attic-bound stuffed animals.  but despite all of this, i had fallen in love in that room and so i recall it fondly.

the words have stayed with me over the last few years, even though The Author has long left my life.  they have sat with me, a strange call to a person i once was but can barely remember - the kind of person that someone writes poetry about.  good poetry.  hemmingway-esque poetry that tugs at sadness and nostalgia and deep, unencumbered love all at once.  i was the kind of person that inspired poetry.  i was that, once.

too much time has passed since i was that person.  bit by bit, that persona dissolved, flaking away slowly until i became a peculiar version of myself.  plump with years of experience - fat with the weight of the world, but emaciated emotionally - starving for the affection i once elicited from an inspired young writer, The Author i once knew.

i often consider the path i've made with my haphazard footsteps, trailing and chasing the wrong kinds of friends, men, dreams.  it's hard to say where i've even been, my memory a fog of the last few years since that poem. we don't talk anymore.  we don't write.  we don't acknowledge the existence of the other any longer, not since the end that we whispered that day.

for the first time, i remember the poem, and think less of The Author.  i think more of this newfound friend i'd wronged.  our blossoming friendship, crippled too soon by a moment of weakness, like a flower trodden by the boots of a careless gardener.  i, unhappy with the hollowness growing inside me, and he, denying the irreversible weathering of a relationship taken one step too far.  the circumstances gave pause, as is customarily the "right thing to do" in these instances, but it feels so desperately wrong that it consumes me, and so here i write.

my overreaction - the consequence of a softened heart, touched with a level of infatuation not seen since The Author.  inexplicable and all-too-soon, i focused on filling my emptiness with his warmth.  the glow of alcohol - chugged, not sipped - illuminated each of us across six inches of tense, magnetic space.  eyes perpetually fixed on his single raised brow, i let myself become enamored by an idea i'd thought i'd never again bring to life.  i silenced his mouth with my own and ruined it all.

now my mind travels to the poem, the tiny wreckage of our friendship sinking to the base of my brain.  and i want to resurface, greedily gulp in the fresh air of a new start, to begin again. the girl i once was claws at my ribcage, rattling from within my chest, asking me to try again.  but she is vain with the hope of a love that can never take shape, and my fear is what keeps me drowning in the loss - the loss of potential love, wrought with a possibility that i can no longer have.

i vow to not let more years pass, as the-girl-i-no-longer-am fights to be heard.  i wrap my fingers around the bit of promise i saw only weeks ago, forget The Author who spoke the words i call by heart, and free my old self.  to be the person living a hemmingway-esque dream.  the person who inspires again. who remembers the accidental arch of an eyebrow as the most beautiful thing.  the person who finds love in the most unlikely places.

sewn.

I tried to sew us together
with pillow talk and Tuesday date nights –

a twine, twisting around our half-empty hearts
like a boa strangling its prey.

It began with a sidelong glance,
a quick white lie settling on the edge of my tongue,

and you, wrapped in the enigmatic smile
she wore that day in the office.

You tried to glue us together
with our ancient conversations –

adhering us weakly to long-broken promises
that we strived to forget.

It was clear from the repeated arguments
about your ugly comforter,
too small, too patched, too thin,

how much I'd grown to hate your love.

Together we chipped away
at the foundation laid years ago,

when I confessed "I love you!"
that hot, windy night in Aruba.

I could see it: the look of terror

when you lied and said you love me too -
a look you didn’t think I saw then,
one you still sometimes wear.

And I know the days we live
are drifting us farther apart –

wedging themselves in the cracks
we’ve made with each biting word.

It tightens, the fraying tether that binds us,
as we stretch further and further,
and although we know it will someday break,

we hold on to each other for now.

silk.

the way that his mouth
twisted against hers

told her that he wanted to be
anywhere but in the moment.

yet his body
moved into hers
flawlessly,
as if it had always been there

as if they were seeing each other
for the millionth time,

and he laughed, realizing
the ridiculousness of it all.

she looked at him as though
he was the most lovely thing she’d ever seen.

a thousand times
she told herself that
she was not bad,

but she was walking a line
and toeing it
less and less carefully.

selfishness flooded though her,
kicking his reservations
to the floor,
stomping on the respect
that grounded him
from touching her.

and they realized that
there’s always another line somewhere.

when he finally spoke,
he spoke as if
he was talking
through a tin can
and string,

grainy and mottled
strained with brooding guilt.

he mumbled,
“can’t... wrong...if only”

but his words were
underwater echoes
vibrating against her brain

she wanted to scream
but instead she said nothing.

she breathed
hot air
against his neck,
rejecting his requests of pause.

she touched him,
her fingers grazed his side
grazed the flat, smooth
skin of his stomach,
creating static movements
under the covers.

a fog of memory.  unreal.
unreachable.  

yet, there he was,

more clear, more real than anyone she’d ever known.

all the “no’s” disappeared
into the sheets,
quietly overturned
by their undeniable 
attraction.
he unraveled her -

carefully stripping
off the layers
that made her feel
like she was good.
raw and uncertain,
she sank into his hands.

for the moment, when
his mouth twisted against hers, she pretended it moved like silk.

she pretended they
were threaded together

by something
bigger
than they really were. 

like all the bad
in the world was good.

good enough
to keep moving
against each other
in that hungry way:

silk. 

soft, delicate,
fine enough to tear -- and so they did. 

hunger.

it took a while, she realized,
for her to see his mouth
in the way it really is -
in the way its softness is illuminated
when it's busy with sound.
but she noticed instantly how
its corners tugged upward in an
ever-present smile, and in a
wild instant knew her hunger for it.

torey.

 

The vase falls and I don’t even bother to reach for it.  The glass touches my toes, dancing across my heels, drawing blood.  But still, I walk onward, over the treachery and through the doorway to the elevator.

The nurses are there again, and they hold me down, injecting the poison into my skin.  I’m not sick but they tell me I am.

I laugh.  Dr. K gives me water, writes a note, and hurries off down the hall.  I sit down on my bed and reach beneath the mattress once everyone has gone, and I find Sara.

There’s a pond out back with giant koi and a skinny heron that eyes them longingly.  I kind of feel bad for him.  He goes back everyday, thinking that no one will fend him off in favor of the koi.  But each day they do.  Dolores sometimes goes after him with a broom.

Underwater, the koi are thankful.  They blow Dolores grateful kisses, pouting their lips and waving frantically to her with the hands they don’t have.  Tomorrow, I will help the heron silence the koi.  Tomorrow they will be his feast.

Sara would like the heron.  She would feel badly for him and bring him bread.  She would say, “Oh, lovely heron, I will take care of you.  Today and tomorrow and the day after that.”  But Sara is not here.  So she will not say it.

It is pizza day in the Lunch Hall.  It is called the Lunch Hall even though we eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner there.  We also have tea.  But it is lunchtime now, and it is pizza day.  I choose pepperoni and sit with Pete.

Pete doesn’t talk much, but that is my favorite part about Pete.  He is very quiet and it is very nice to eat lunch with him.  I sit next to his chair and he looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi, Pete.”

            Pete looks away, and nods softly.

“Torey,” says Ms. Devon quietly, “Time for art.”

And we go.

It’s watercolor day, and Ms. Devon hands me the paint and some brushes.  I find a canvas in the corner and paint the vase.  It’s very lovely and Ms. Devon tells me so.  She asks where I saw the vase and I can’t tell her.

somnia.

The clock on the wall ticked and tocked as she waited.  The end of the hallway loomed ahead of her like the mouth of a large cave, bits of moonlight glinting across the floor as it peeked through the window.  Three more minutes, and she would be free.

Thirty-seven years of marriage and she still liked to pace through the house as Hal snorted and grunted in his sleep.  It was a horrible kind of noise - the kind of noise that reminded her of the low hum of a motorboat, sputtering and whining as it changed gears.  Thirty-seven years of sleepless nights - of uneven breathing - of wet, moist coughs that interrupted Peggy's soft slumber.  Two minutes, she noted, as she leaned heavy against the linen closet door.

Thirty-seven years and two beautiful children, whose smiling faces plastered the walls of Peggy's slightly outdated home.  In the dark, she eyed the family portrait, noting Claudia's long, auburn hair and Stephen's misshapen, but handsome Roman nose.  He, too, snored, but was in no way the same orchestra of regurgitated sounds that Hal was. As if on cue, Hal stirred again, taking a deep mucous-filled snort.  It was a sound Peggy knew well.  It meant that Hal was falling into a deeper sleep - the kind of sleep that only fire alarms and smoke detectors could disturb.  But not the kind of sleep that quieted her husband.  Not yet - it was still one minute away.

Thirty-seven years of this strangled cacophony.  Peggy's legs, bare but covered in liver spots, carried her down the hallway.  She recalled the day Hal proposed to her, his mud-brown eyes searching her own as he bent on one stubby knee.  The moment of silence before her resounding "Yes!" had been encompassing.  She swam in that moment, heart exploding with excitement and peace and awe, even now.  From the second Hal slipped the ring onto her bony hand, Peggy knew her life would be full with him in it.

For thirty-seven years and two-and-a-half minutes, Peggy had patiently watched Hal dream.  His eyes moved rapidly beneath his lids, and his mouth gaped open, letting guttural sounds emerge without pause.   Peggy touched a weathered hand to Hal's aging skin, soothingly stroking his temples.  She smiled gently at the gurgling man, letting her hands search his sleeping face, and remembering the last thirty-seven years she'd spent at his side.  The thirty-seven years of sleepless nights.  Of beautiful children.  Of strangled cacophony.

She closed her eyes, as she often would, and imagined her trembling fingers wrapping around his soft, wrinkled throat.  She imagined smothering his snores with the down pillow that he insisted helped him sleep better.  She imagined the silence that would come.

And then, she noticed, it did.  Hal's strangled noises paused.  His breathing lulled.  Peggy opened her eyes.  Hal's chest remained motionless.

"Hal?" Peggy whispered.  Then, with more volume, she cried, "Hal!"

Her hands grasped at his shoulders, shaking him as she sobbed.  She remembered every traceable moment over their last thirty-seven years and three minutes.  She remembered joy rides in Hal's old Cadillac and Saturday morning trips to Costco.  She remembered the way Hal called her "Doll" - even as the years stole her youth.  She remembered the day he heroically carried a seven-year-old Claudia, blood-covered and tear-stained, two miles home from a bike ride gone awry.   And how he had built a casket of old plywood for the family dog when Stephen insisted on a proper funeral for Skip.  Tears streamed down Peggy's panicked face - thin, skeletal fingers still shaking her husband frantically.

Suddenly, a violent gasp escaped the lifeless body.  Hal's eyes widened.

"Hal!  Hal, " Peggy sobbed, as Hal struggled to get air, "A-are you okay? Tell me you're okay!"

Hal inhaled sharply, sitting upright.  He smiled, and the lines beside his eyes crinkled as he fought to catch his breath.  He opened his arms, pulling Peggy onto the bed, close to him.

Peggy settled into the sheets beside Hal, curling up against his warmth.  Tears still streamed silently down her cheeks.

"Y-you scared me," she said with a whisper. "I thought - thought that you..."

"Shhhh," Hal stroked Peggy's hair, "Don't talk like that, Doll.  I'm just fine.  Not going anywhere yet.  Now, close your eyes and get some sleep."

Wordlessly, Peggy obliged.  With a heavy sigh, and Hal's arms wrapped around her, she drifted into a deep slumber.

After thirty-seven years and twelve minutes of marriage, Peggy found herself awoken yet again by the sounds of disgruntled distress beside her.  Thirty-seven years and twelve minutes of togetherness.  She smiled, noting the soft symphony Hal made as he slept - the gentle babbling that left Peggy aware that more years were to come.

clang.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, her vacant stare settling on the floor as he paced the room.

"I - I just don't understand," he repeated, a noticeable quake entwining the phrase.

The cigarette between her long fingers burned orange, ashes flitting through the air as she waved her right hand.  He stopped pacing and faced her, though she still refused to meet his gaze.

"Cat."

Smoke whooshed from her lungs, passing her lips and creating an audible sigh.  She flicked more ash to the ground.

"Cat."

She grabbed the bag beside her - pausing to admire the purple patent leather that encased it before opening it.  She rummaged through its contents: old receipts, make-up, a pen that had long run out of ink, a crushed granola bar.  She reached her left hand deeply into the bag, feeling for the thin outline of the tiny object she was searching for.

"CAT!"

Finally, she felt the smooth metal and pointed edge of the ring, buried deep in the corner of her purse.  She pinched it, grasping it between her fingers, but did not remove it from its resting place.  She looked up at him.  His eyes were sad, brimmed with wetness.

"What, Nate?"

"Cat, I can't do this.  If you're leaving, you have to tell me why.  You have to give me a reason."

Cat scoffed and raised single eyebrow, creating lines in her forehead.

"Do you believe in destiny, Nate?" she asked, twirling what was left of her cigarette between her thumb and forefinger.

"Of course I do.  That's why this doesn't make sense.  YOU are my destiny and YOU are throwing it away," he replied, a note of desperation in his voice.  Cat narrowed her eyes.

"I'm no one's fucking destiny," she clarified, then added, "And I think people who believe in destiny are losers. Destiny is just a stupid excuse to wait for things to happen.. instead of making them happen."

Nate's expression evolved instantly.  What Cat once read as sadness she now recognized immediately as pain.  Her left hand remained unmoved, still shoved into the cavernous mess that was her bag.

"That's not true," he defended. "I'm not a loser.  You're a bitch. A fucking bitch. And I'm tired of you treating me like shit.  All I have ever wanted is to marry you - spend my life with you. And you're fucking insane half the time!  Like, and you know I love you, but you - you have these days where you're so goddamn mean.  I just can't take it. You really are a fucking bitch."

Cat laughed, not bothering to try to stifle it.  She dropped the cigarette butt on the kitchen floor and crushed it into the tile with the toe of her boot.  Finally she stood, pulling the ring from deep within her purse as she got to her feet.  She stepped forward, pausing about three feet in front of Nate.  The corners of her mouth upturned in what became a venomous smile.

"Well, then," she spoke, a cool, smoky edge enveloping her words. She lifted the ring to face level and offered it to him, "I guess you won't mind if I leave."

"What are you doing, Cat?" Nate pleaded frantically.

"Take the ring, Nate."

"No.  Cat, don't do this."

"Take the ring, Nate."

"NO. Where are you going?"

Cat inhaled, preparing to argue, to defend herself.  She squared her chest and searched Nate's sad, panicked face.  He would never understand.

"To make my own fucking destiny," she finally answered, spinning on her heel to leave.

"Cat. Cat! Don't go!" Nate called helplessly after her, begging,  "I'm sorry! I love you!"

The ring made a gentle clang as it hit the floor.

writer's block .. ! ..

http://prowritingtips.com/2008/10/100-jump-starters-to-cure-your-writers-block/

how i can't love you.

I wish I could love you.

It'd be so perfect, wouldn't it?  Opportune. A meet-cute.  A story to tell at a cocktail party surrounded by new friends.

I'd stand at your side as your hand found the small of my back.  It'd be warm, possessive - but not demanding.  We'd share a knowing look, and laugh together at all the right times as we settled into this new life.  I'd marvel at the tiny lines gathering beside your eyes, learning each one.  I'd watch your lips part over imperfect teeth and know that when we got home from the party, slightly wine-drunk and sexually charged, all bets would be off.

It'd be convenient to love you.

Because when I'm with you, my head swims with possibility and exhilaration and uncertainty.  You change me, challenge me, turn me inside out on the very best of days.  It feels an awful lot like the drumroll leading up to a relationship.  But it's not.  You want the Big Things.  Things that frustrate me.  Things I can't give to you. You lure me out of my own head, just to scare me.  And I wonder what it even is I'm doing here.

I thought I could love you.

I rest my feet on your lap as we listen to old records on vinyl, and I consider if this means we are in love.  The old Polaroid of us at the beach hangs on the fridge.  In it, your fingers are tangled in my wet, salt-crusted hair, my eyes are closed and hands outstretched at nothing in particular. We both show our teeth to the camera and they glint with happiness.  From the outside looking in, it looks like we are there - in love, I mean.

It'd be nice.  Obvious.  Right.

I almost wish I could.

But I just can't bring myself to love you.