Lions and Wolves

"What is your favorite animal?"

"I don't know. I guess I like them all."

"All of them?"

"Sure. I even like pigeons."

"Even hermit crabs?"

"Yeah. I really like all animals. Why? What is your favorite animal?"

"I like wolves."

"Why?"

"Because of their howl."

"Because of their howl...I've never heard their howl."

"I've heard it on TV."

"Oh. Well, I've heard that. Yeah. It's a good howl."

"I also like lions."

"Why?"

"I like their hair."

"Lions do have good manes."

"Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Correct me. I didn't mean their manes, I meant the golden color of their hair."

"Well, if you knew what you meant, then why didn't you specify? I like their manes."

"This isn't about what you like."

"You're starting again. You and your wild animals. Lions and wolves, Jesus. Can't you just like cats?"

"I can't help what animals I like. You shouldn't tell me what animals to like."

"I'm leaving."

"Typical."

"And I'm not coming back."

"I don't care."

"You sound so stupid when you say 'I don't care."

"Go!"

"I'm gone."

"Not fast enough."

"Bye."

"..."

"And now you're not talking to me."

"..."

"Fuck."

"..."

"Ah-ooooooooo. There's your wolf howl. Ah-ooooo. Ah-oooo. I hope you like it."

"..."

"Bye."

And, finally, he left.

Decisions

"It's not good to think you are better than other people," the King reminded his daughter.

"Oh, I know. I don't think I am better than other people. I'm sure that he makes his family very happy... and I know there are many things that he is better at than I am. For example, he is excellent at sports. I couldn't catch a ball to save my life. Likewise, there are some things that I am better at than he is, like thinking and acquiring knowledge." They were sitting at the royal table. The Queen and the prince were off on a shopping expedition to a foreign land.

"Be careful. Arrogance is always a trap. Do you have to see him again?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." She pushed the salad around on her plate.

"You don't know?" The king filled his mouth with an enormous bite of tomato in a notably elegant manner.

"Well, I'm seeing him again tonight." She sipped some wine.

"When do I get to meet this young man?" The king ate more tomato, this time with a little cheese.

"Why do you want to meet him?" The princess pushed the plate away and leaned against the high backed chair.

"Well, you know I love sports. I'd like to meet the young athlete." The king winked.

"You're not going to humiliate him, are you?"

"Of course not."

"Why are you going to humiliate him?" Two servants glided in and cleared the table.

"Why are you going to see him again when you just spent the better part of an hour complaining about his lack of intelligence?"

"I was just venting." The princess checked her hair for split ends.

"Well, if you like him so much, you should bring him up to see me."

"Fine. I will. But be kind to him."

"Of course, I'll be kind. I'm not the one who thinks he is 'incapable of original thought.' I just want to meet the man you are dating." The king folded his hands rather proudly over his slender waist.

"Maybe I won't see him after all."

"Oh?"

"No. I just feel tired all of a sudden." She looked a little bit sad.

"Coffee will be ready soon."

"No. Tell the maids to send him away when he arrives." She stood up and arranged her skirts around her.

"Of course, dear. Will you join me for chess later?" The king beamed.

"I'll be there." The princess sulked out of the room.

"Good girl. You could use the practice." The king called after her. A servant put a raspberry sorbet garnished with a sprig of mint and a freshly made espresso before the king. He looked most pleased.

Why Bother?

-You look great! Did you lose some weight?

-I lost a few pounds. Thanks.

-No, really. You look great.

-Thanks.

-So, how have you been?

-Oh, alright. How have you been?

-Fine, I suppose. I moved in with Sarah, you know. That has been interesting.

-I think she is really good for you.

-Do you think so?

-Yes.

-Yeah, well, I hope so.

-You are a lucky man to find such a nice girl.

=Well, thanks.

-I can tell she really cares about you.

-Yeah. I guess she does.

-It's great. It must be nice.

-So, have you been dating?

-Not really. Well, a little bit. No. Not really.

-Sounds like you are dating someone...

-No, I'm not.

-C'mon. You don't have to hide it from me. I won't be hurt.

-Are you mocking me? I'm not dating anyone.

-You need to relax. So why aren't you dating anyone?

-I don't know. How is work going?

-Not so good. I hate it. What do you think I should do with my life?

-What do you want to do with your life?

-That's the question.

-I think it is a stupid question. Much better to ask "How should I spend my time?"

-Whatever. I need to make money. I know how I want to spend time.

-How do you want to spend time?

-Thinking.

-Mmmm. You could go back to school.

-Yeah. How is your job?

-Awesome. I love it.

-So now you just need a boyfriend

-I don't need anything.

-You always say that.

-I don't always say anything.

-You always say that, too.

-I have to go.

-I know you do.

-Have a good night. Tell Sarah I say, "Hi." and that I can't wait to see her again.

-Sure. Take care of yourself, ok?

-OK. Bye.

-See ya.

a dabbler in love letters

Peter hadn't received a love letter in 12 years. Even then, it had been more of a break up letter than a love letter. In the letter, his girlfriend, who lived two states away, had quoted a pop song, "How can we be lovers if we can't be friends?" His response: "How can we be friends when you write shit like that?" And that had been his last love letter. Since then, the odd emailed declaration of love had come his way, but nothing tangible and certainly nothing memorable.

One night, when his most recent ex-girlfriend had curled up in an ancient lazyboy for a painfully detailed phone call with her mother, he had sat in her room and looked through her stuff. Most interesting had been her old sketchbook, from when she had entertianed dreams of being a Serious Artist. She had drawn pictures of her high school sweetheart in various stages of consciousness and repose. Sometimes he was upright and alert, other times she drew him sprawled out on the floor, drool accumulating in his messy hair.

Between the drawings were small notes left for the ex, "I'll be back soon, sweetie. Just going to get some supplies." "Make dinner for yourself tonight. I'll be out with the girls. I love you!" "If you have time, please come meet me at the coffee shop. I'm working late." She had never drawn Peter, nor had she written him a letter.

After they broke up, Peter started crafting lovers notes, but not to anyone in particular. He would take friend's notebooks while they were using the bathroom, or while they stepped out for a minute, open the books to the middle and write small intimacies: "Don't forget to change the kitty litter!" "Your Mom called. Let's stay in tonight." "Last weekend was so much fun. Thanks for making my birthday so special." "I am so so so lucky to be with you." He would take napkins in deli's and write anonymous confessions of love and then leave them in public places for the next person who appeared to find. He slipped them between pages of library books, or leave them on coffee shop tables. He never stuck around to witness their discovery.

One night, walking home from choir practice, he found a pile of books outside a house. He checked the titles, and grabbed a copy of In The Night Kitchen. He thought he could read it to his nephews. He started leafing through it as he walked. A letter fell out onto the sidewalk.

"I Brian C. will never harass or cause personal distress to Helen Steinberger. This is a personal apology for the date of 1-3-97."

When he got home, he stuck the note to his refrigerator. He looked up Helen Steinberger on Google and found out she had been eighteen when the note was written. Now she was married and the mother of a little boy. She had lived in the same city as him at one point, but now she was in Des Moines. Her Facebook status indicated that she was currently enjoying a coffee in the sun while watching children at the park.

The next love letter he wrote was several years later, and it was to the woman who he eventually asked to marry him.

Hilarious Pint of Pus

The crowd shuffled, shoeless, into the children's gymnastics room. The staff had neatly lined up their shoes outside of the brightly painted room, full of padded climbing structures wrapped in garishly colored pleather. It was Monday morning. Some had heard the news and had spent the weekend weighed with grief and worry. Others were concerned: curious to find out the reason for the meeting, but wary that it might inflict them with the same sorrow that they identified on the faces of those around them.

People found places to sit on the floor mats and apparatus. They faced forward, and only the occasional murmur of reassurance was to be heard. Two boys tried to sit on a trampoline, but, finding the arrangement inappropriately comic, quickly found themselves other spots.

When the director finally spoke, from the front, her voice broke with tears and the young man standing next to her put his arm around her shoulders. She stepped back for a second. When she came forward again, she told everyone the news.

Eyes glanced over to, and then quickly turned from a girl sitting on a big red mat towards the center of the room. She had a shield of friends around her. They leaned back on their arms, but occasionally would pat her in demonstration of sympathetic connection. Having patted her for a few seconds, the hands limply returned to their much easier duties as supports.

The girl's head hung low and her tears stained the bright yellow staff shirt with mustard drops.

The director stopped speaking and people waited, not really sure what to do. The center girl, clearly a lover, or a sister, got to her feet first. Her friends scrambled to join her. She led them out of the gymnasium. After a few more minutes, the room was filled with whispers, and after ten minutes, the room was left empty.

Thirty minutes later, the room was filled with busy three year olds pulling themselves up onto balance beams, pirouetting on the trampoline and perfecting the ancient art of the somersault.

Prayer

Forgive me my vanity in thinking I am less vulnerable than I am,
Grant me the strength to avoid men who can best be described by the adjective, 'reptilian;'
Give me the strength to resist my sympathetic yearning for men who suffer;
Lead me not into the temptation of wanting to help those beyond my reach;
Deliver me from falling in love with self aggrandizing men, furious at the world's disregard;
Amen

The Balloon Boy

The adolescents were running with purpose. Several intricate strategies were being utilized. It was a vicious game of Capture the Flag.

A girl was trapped in jail. "Someone come and tag me!" She cried, but no one came.

A blue helium balloon, almost deflated, drifted by on the summer wind. The balloon was beyond her reach. She watched it float across the playing field, towards the parking lot.

One boy from her team left the game, and drifted after the balloon. He was thirteen and over six feet tall. He was unused to his recent growth and moved strangely, his top half lobbing along in front of his lower. He followed the ball past the first car in the parking lot, a red Toyota, then the second car. He lurched forward and poked the balloon up into the air. It floated back down onto his outstretched finger.

He turned back towards to the game, prodding and pushing the balloon along with him. He walked more slowly and carefully now, engaged in a complex dance with the balloon and eventually he reentered the playing field.

Madness continued around him, the air dense with frenzied directions of how to break enemy lines. The boy ambled through the game play, keeping the balloon afloat. Where others hurried haphazardly, he now maintained a comfortable rhythm with his blue partner.

One of her team members broke through and tagged her, "I got you! Run! Run!"

The girl stood, transfixed. If he had led her into a mountain, she would have followed.

Between the Maple Trees

There is a house on the corner of Broadway that is the same color as the sky on a sunny day. In front of that house there are two old Maple trees. In the summer, especially on foggy days, but when the trees are brilliant green, you can stand opposite this house and imagine you are looking out through a forest at a blue sky over an open field.

There had been such a field behind her parents house, and so now, as she lived so far away, on her walks to and from the grocery store or from work, she would periodically stop and gaze at this house on Broadway. She sometimes wondered if anyone in the house ever noticed her looking. If they did, she hoped they would come and introduce themselves. Who painted their house the color of the sky?

She had skied around that field. Spotted fawns in the spring. Ran through the corn maize in the summer and gathered colored leaves for waxing in the fall. It had been that sort of field. One August, when the field lay fallow, and wild grass grew thick, she had walked around the field with a lover.

It had been around six o' clock, and so the heat didn't slow them down. They walked up and down the soft hills at the perimeter. The sky had been blue when they left the house, but warm winds brought clouds and a thunderstorm.

The raindrops were cold, but the air was warm, and they kept walking. They didn't duck under the dark green leaves of the trees in the woods, but stayed in the field. At intervals they broke into a run for no sensible reason. They laughed and held hands. They hugged and their wet clothes clung together. It was the sort of evening she didn't yet know was rare.

When the rain stopped, the air was cooler and the sun had almost disappeared and so they walked back to the house. Her mother was entertaining and several serious ladies sat around the big bowls of salad and summer peaches and nectarines resting on their spacious kitchen table. When the couple entered the room, full of giggling urgency, the ladies stared. Her mother had been upstairs, perhaps still getting dressed for the evening.

She caught sight of their reflection in the window: two bedraggled long-haired urchins dripping water before these proud stately women. Even though it was her house, she felt unwelcome, and she grabbed his hand and led him to her room where they took off the wet clothes and tried to warm themselves.

This was what she thought about when she stood in front of the blue house with the maple trees in front. Weeks later that boy had left her, and, at the time, it hadn't mattered.

Yeah Yeah Yeah

She gave the matter of leaving him a lot of thought. After all, he was the nicest man she had ever dated. He was pleasant, if boring; funny, in a simple sort of way; and far more handsome than she had ever imagined she could date. Simply taking him out to dinner and doing the deed seemed disrespectful. She hadn't really given him signs that she was unhappy in the relationship, and so it would come as a shock to his routine.

She spoke to her friends about it.

1) "Just do it-- a clean break will be easiest.

2) "Send him a text.

3) "C'mon. Don't be so ridiculous. He's a grown up. He's been dumped before. We all have.

4) "About fucking time. Call him and say you have something serious to talk about. Then, he'll know.

5) "Don't apologize and don't smile.

None of these would work. She did care about him, but not romantically. More in the way she cared for an injured bird she had found when she was thirteen.

She decided to do it slowly, in stages. First, she started calling him when she only had minutes to spare. She left just enough time for ritual greetings, but not enough time for any honest conversation. Then, she became busier with work and a new fitness plan. Finally, she casually introduced him to a girl she selected with great care.

A week later, she sent him a text, "I think we should talk."

"I want you to meet my parents," he wrote back.

Eurydice

He turned to look at her with eyes hungry with need.

He had led their upwards struggle. She noticed how his shoulders sagged forward, heavy with grief and slighted entitlement. His music had long gone silent but he breathed with a rhythmic urgency that seemed at once familiar and startling. The breath, amplified in the still darkness, reminded her of lost experiences of music and dancing.

Before he came for her, when she was alone, she had forgotten all pleasure: the way that the rain used to massage her, or the gentle grooming of the forest wind. She felt ashamed for having left him, incapable of dancing, unworthy of the wind's attention.

Then, he had found her, and they had begun their climb. Each step upward was a struggle to remember how she had been. She was frightened of what he would see when he saw her. Her fingers struggled through her greasy hair and stumbled with horrified curiosity over her dessicated breasts and jagged hips.

If she survived the climb, she could take nourishment once again. She could press her palms into his shoulders until he stood straight. Until then, she needed his strength to carry their hope.

The weight proved too heavy.

At first he was unsure if it was her, as she was changed. Her face flooded with resignation as he comprehended his mistake. She lowered her head, suddenly heavier, in farewell.

Flesh and Bark

The precise moment she knew she didn't want to be with him occurred 3 months before she finally left. She was clinging to climber's staples embedded into a Redwood tree, being belayed by an overweight seventeen year old boy. She was breathing deeply. The smell of the tree was overpowering.

She hated climbing, and she always forgot this until she was actually off the ground. She loved Redwoods, but, 20 feet off the ground, she realized that she was able to love them much more when she was looking up at their flakey bark and dark green needles, and not when her body was wrapped around one of them for dear life.. She had reached a part of the trunk flooded with sticky sap. To complete the course she had to climb twelve more feet, and pull her body onto a board suspended by wires. She then had to jump accross a series of boards before she the belayer would float her down. She carefully balanced her weight on two staples and stared at the sap. There were small mites encased in it. The sight made her queasy. She imagined it would burn like molasses against her bare arms.

And that was when she knew. She couldn't imagine having his child. She could no longer suffer his pedantic self important drivel. The idea of his flesh on hers was something she could no longer tolerate.

"I want to come down," she called.

"Oh, you can do it. Just keep going," called the boy, trying to be encouraging.

"I don't want to," she called back. "Please just let me down."

"Ok. Just lean backwards off the tree." He pulled the rope into a tight break. She could feel it almost lifting her off the staples.

She clung to the tree for just a second longer, and then pressed her mouth against the amber sap. She expected it to cling to her lips, but it was smooth and cold against her skin. She leaned back and stared up as the course receded away from her as she was belayed to the ground.

The Disapointments

He liked to sleep with the lights off, the shades down and the heat on.
His sweat smelled like boiled cabbage.
He valued honesty over kindness.
He walked haphazardly without caring about other pedestrians.
He called pigeons, as do many, "the rats of the sky."
He was never punctual and demanded patience from others.
He explained that it was only natural that he check out every woman in a dress that passed on the street.
He was incapable of happiness or long term satisfaction.
He equated income with human worth.
He deemed all celebration a waste of time.
He never ate watermelon to the rind, but discarded ridges of delicious pink flesh.

Sighting

Her back was towards me and so, at first, I wasn't sure if it was her or not. She was holding the hand of a tall man. I know she is dating a French man, so I told myself that if I heard him speaking French, that it was definitely her. I walked into the next gallery and started to listen. I didn't understand what he was saying, but it was definitely French. It was her.

I left the museum and headed North to the trail by the bay. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible. I hadn't seen her in years, and I wasn't sure if I was ready. Then, I remembered that scene in Vertigo, when Jimmy Stewart watches the lady with the spiral hair at the Legion of Honor. I went back and positioned myself where I imagined he had been standing. The air smelled like Eucalyptus. I stood there for along time. My feet fell asleep and I jogged in place a little.

There she was. Red dress, long hair. She looked fatter, and I tried to take some consolation in her weight gain, but I was lying to myself. She kept touching him and laughing. I meant to look at him more carefully, but he was wearing a baseball cap and his face was obscured. He looked average. Even with her extra weight she looked like she was slumming it with this French gentleman.

They started to walk down the long road through the golf course. I waited until they had passed, and then I followed them. I remembered, at the second corner, that she and I had been there years before with her parents. We had brought a picnic and walked to Land's End after the museum. Her mother had become tired and I walked slowly with her, while my ex-girlfriend hurried along the hilly trail with her father. We ate turkey sandwiches on buttered rye bread and cherries and left before the sun set.

I followed them all the way down to California Street. I guess I could have said "Hi". I remembered the foggy Forth of July we spent walking around this golf course. We were just out, walking, the way we used to do. Neither of us had dressed appropriately and the wet air enveloped our exposed, goosebumped arms. We did jumping jacks to warm ourselves and then ran home.

At the bottom of the hill, they took a right, perhaps to go to Geary Street. She took his hand, and he moved a little closer to her. It was sad to watch her leaving. I walked back up to the Legion of Honor and then on to Land's End for the sunset.

A New Low

In tears, I called his house and his girlfriend, who I believed he had broken up with, answered the phone. Though we were the same age, she had an old voice. He wasn't there to speak to me. I was emotional, my wits long worn down and I started talking to her. We hadn't met, but we had a lot to discuss. We commiserated about his philandering ways, his impulsive behavior, and his dishonesty.

After about ten minutes I thanked her for taking the time to talk to me. She was calm.

"Don't worry, I'm used to talking to his flings. It happens all the time."

When we hung up, my body convulsed with shame.

Rye Rolls and Sticky Buns

A bespectacled woman sat at her laptop in a yellow painted cafe. She was drinking milky coffee from a large blue mug and picking at a rye roll so densely packed with raisins that it had the consistency of cake. It was early morning, and all the tables in the cafe were taken. There was a line out the door.

A young man approached, "Is anyone sitting here?" He gestured to the chair opposite her, the last available one in the cafe.

She smiled, nodded her head and shifted her computer closer towards her to make room for him. He was sun-tanned, so much so that SPF 15 was almost needed just to be in the same room as him. His scruffy hair, streaked with blond, and his clothes, light and baggy, looked as if they could do with some cleaning. He placed his pecan sticky bun and mug of green tea on the table. The scents of tea and coffee mingled. She continued to type.

"Whatcha doing?" She briefly glanced over her computer and then continued typing

"I'm writing."

"Like, stuff for school? Stuff for work?"

"Stories for myself, actually."

"That's cool. What about?" She pushed the top of her laptop to about 45 degrees and took a loving gulp of coffee.

"I am writing a blog about break ups and old love affairs."

"Is it true stuff or fiction?"

"It's fiction"

"Sure its fiction."

"It is fiction."

"I have a story about a love affair. Want to hear it?" He took an enormous bite of the pecan bun. His cheeks swelled up with food. She shut the laptop and waited for him to swallow. The bite took many chews and three swallows. He had an unusually large adam's apple. When he opened his mouth, streams of saliva spun from his top teeth to the bottom ones and there was a pecan stuck onto his left canine tooth. He ran his tongue over his teeth and then began.

"When I was twelve, I fell in love with an eleven year old from down the street. She used to babysit for my younger brother and sister. She was flat chested and wore big pink plastic glasses. We watched Batman together. The old Batman, with Adam West and we'd joke about it. Sometimes we'd reenact scenes when she babysat. She'd be Robin, and I'd be Batman, and my siblings would be the baddies.

Once we went on a long walk in June alone together. It was upstate New York in the summer. It was too hot and humid to walk in the sun, so she took me into the woods behind the neighborhood. She led me past a dry waterfall, through a grove of maple trees to a dark damp mossy area near the stream. There were hundreds of boulders of different sizes all covered in this velvety vibrant green. We lay on the moss and stared up at small patches of blue sky through the densely packed canopy of the trees. We didn't talk much, but that was ok.

That was the summer the first Tim Burton Batman came out. I wanted her to come with me. So I walked over to her house and spoke to her mother. I asked if she could come with me to see the movie. Her mom said she would ask her. I walked back with a pounding heart, listening to the cicadas screaming but too excited to notice the mosquitos. I fell asleep that night itchy and wondering if I could hold her hand.

I never got any response. She stopped coming over to babysit. My mother told me she had gone away to camp. Towards the end of the summer I was mowing the lawn when she rode by on her bicycle. She was riding down to the circle at the end of the block, her t-shirt clung to her body. I knew she'd be coming back past my house again and positioned myself where our grass met the street. When she rode by she was so close I could smell her sweat. I stuck out my arm and pushed her. She flew over the handlebars and skidded onto her face.

I quickly pushed the lawnmower back up into the garage and went into the living room and started playing with my sister. Again my heart thumped and again I didn't hear any response.

On the first day of school, I got on the school bus knowing she'd get on at the next stop. She climbed on and half of her face was covered in purple scabs. She sat in the seat behind the bus drive and didn't turn around to look at anyone. Later that day I heard people calling her Scarface. I felt confused.

That November my family moved to West Virginia and I never said goodbye to her.

Of course, that isn't the end of the story, otherwise I wouldn't tell it. When I went to college I saw her at an Elliot Smith show in a basement in Boston. It was a couple of years before he died. She was sitting in the back, leaning against a much older guy. I was relieved to see her face had no scars. I went over to say hi. We exchanged numbers and I called and invited her out for coffee.

We met in a cafe on the top floor of a tall skyscraper. I liked it because it was full of lawyers and there was a great view; I usually went there to study. She drank coffee. She told me that the first time she had drunk coffee had been at my house. My mother had told her to start drinking it with lots of milk and sugar and she had. Now she preferred it black. At the end of the meeting I kissed her forehead and she squeezed me goodbye.

We started dating. We only spoke about my having pushed her off the bike once. We were drunk in a snowy alley. It was late, after some show. We were making a punk snowman, but we could barely see cause there was no streetlight. We found a soggy cigarette butt on the pavement and hung it from the snowman's mouth. She asked me if I had really pushed her and I said yes and that I was sorry. She laughed and said it didn't matter. I asked why she hadn't gone to the movie with me, and she said that when her mother had told her she had panicked and cried. She said she had been too young.

We broke up a few months later, but I don't want to talk about that. Wow. I haven't thought about any of that in years. You kind of look like her. That is my story of a love affair. Do you want to use it in your blog?"

"I liked your story, but you should be the one to write it down. I have to get to work now." By this time her blue mug was empty and all that remained of the roll was a solitary crumb. She put the computer back into her bag and got up to leave. She stopped next to him as she was leaving, and after pushing the hair from his face, kissed his forehead goodbye.

What I Miss

Nostalgia is a tempting trap. I could lie awake and recreate days we spent together. You waking up first and kissing me "hello" before getting out of bed gently, rearranging the covers over me and then heading out for your run. I'd make coffee, then we'd slowly sip it with breakfast after your shower. We'd take the bus together half way. You'd steady me when the bus made sudden stops and we'd kiss "see you soon."We'd text romantic notions to each other and meet for drinks after work.

These are not what made us special. It was our mutual commitment to our fantasy. We created something wonderful. To enter this fantasy again, after it was so brutally untrue, is like waving a wand to combat death's scythe.

I have no hopes for happiness. It is not you that I miss.

Shit Everywhere

Fuck. What happened here?

Cate got mad at me.

So she trashed your place?

Yeah.

I didn't know she was crazy.

Yeah.

How did it happen?

I just came home and it was like this.

She broke into your apartment and just trashed it?

Yeah.

Thats crazy.

Uh-huh.

Are you going to clean it up?

Yeah.

Thats fucked up. I'd make her clean it up. Did she do it because she was mad at you?

I didn't call her back or something and she thought I was cheating on her.

Are you cheating on her?

No.

Fuck.

Yeah.

Are you going to break up with her?

I don't know.

You don't know? You should totally break up with her.

Yeah.

Do you have any beer?

She poured it all on the kitchen floor.

Fuck. Let's go out.

Yeah.

A Love Story

Once upon a time there was a hippie chick who fell in love with a goth girl. They lived happily ever after.

To their friends, though, the relationship was troublesome.

Imagine a Taijitu, or a Yin and Yang symbol, perfectly balanced. Now, imagine that the Yang element, the white half, starts to encroach on the Yin's section. The white bleeds over its boarders. The movement is deliberate, insidious.

The Yang spreads over three quarters of the circle. Now seven eighths. It progresses unhurriedly, almost lazily.

Soon the only Yin that remains is the small black circle once inside the original Yang's half. It is small in the whiteness.

The Yin speaks, "I love you."

"I love you too," answers the Yang and swallows the tiny remaining Yin.

The goth girl ostensibly remained a goth girl and the hippie chick, a hippie chick, and they lived, perhaps happily, ever after.

I've Left.

And that is all.

Please Be Quiet

Whenever he is talking, no matter the subject, I think, "Shut up. Shut up." At the beginning, and for a long time after, I responded to his conversation, asking questions, giving suggestions and generally participating. When he didn't engage with my responses, I switched to nodding and humming in agreement. Now, I find that I can read a book or type on my computer and that he keeps on talking without any acknowledgment whatsoever.

At first meeting he seems like a fascinating man with a lot to say. Otherwise, I don't think I would have liked him so much. I was giddy when I thought about him. There were warning signs at the beginning, though. After we first slept together I should have known that it couldn't last. After my orgasm, he looked at me with self-satisfied triumph. He seemed to be expecting applause. As if I was so lucky to have had the opportunity to sleep with him. I know some women do lie to men. You know, "Oh! I haven't had an orgasm in three years. Tee hee." Like that. It gives all of these men incredibly overinflated egos.

Never mind the fact that when we are having sex he looks like a praying mantis because of the way his body careens away from mine. Has anyone ever had the nerve to tell him that before? Would it possibly make him shut up? More likely he wouldn't even notice. Worse, it would just give him something else to talk about.

Anyway, I should have known, but I didn't. And now I have to figure out how to break up with this guy. I want to be nice about it, though. I mean, he isn't so bad. I think he really does like me. He just is a verbal processor. He can't really help it. In a way, I am the bad person for feeling the way I do. I just wish he would shut up.