death is a four letter word

i do not have a crystal ball. there are no tarot cards disguised beneath the pale silk scarves which lay unremembered in the bottom of pine-scented drawers. no books of witchcraft or sorcery line the whitewashed shelves of the boards by the bright open window and i do not seek the high whisper of magic in the voice of psychics or mages. yet i know bone-deep the future.

perhaps this is why the hunger for tragedy so chases the traffic of my veins, always one step behind my sunny disposition. it is there, though few see it and none understand. i seek sadness. like the wilted petals of summer-soaked gardens i find peace in the quiet of death. words which break and drown in the tears of their reader are my solace and i weep in the beauty of faded ink, of prose and poetry and script fit to line the most magnificent of coffins.

for that is where he shall be. my love, my heart, my breath. nine years past i stood in the shadow of fifteen candles and when i wished i wished that my future may not be so. i clenched my fist to the blast of the hot north wind which extinguished the twinkling orange teardrops in my stead and so i knew there was no hope. still the silver casket reigned in my dreams.

and maybe that is why i have never really been in love. i fear it for i know it shall be as fleeting as the midsummer night and painful as ten million pricks beneath my skin. but i will fall one day. one day when pink gumdrops tickle sour on my tongue and the sun catches the blades of grass just right i will give up my soul while he laughs and brushes his mouth against mine and is never the wiser. in that moment i will not think of the things he will miss, how he will never have grey hair, or caress the golden head of his grandchild; he will never stop to face his reflection and count the wrinkles of life around his eyes. but he will not see the falter of my smile and i will kiss him while he twists my heart around his so that when death comes, endlessly will i whisper to the pieces left behind, pieces wound too tight to ever be found by the darkest and most wicked of angels.

DNA UFO's

Bleakly the sky weeps dark rain, grey shadows swirling in the thick mist. It is a storm of epic proportions, they say, although who "they" are I can't be sure. But the clouds don't stop rolling in and soon enough crowds gather to watch what may never again come in their lifetime, hoping to catch a glimpse of the unidentifiable objects that appear like flashes against the veil of the black wind.
His truck is old, and the radio skitters with a scratchy annoucement, a call to arms for all to the local Publix, the End of the World Sale beginning in mere hours. Kurt Vandergross (the actor) sits in the driver's seat, this man whose face I know not but whose soul is near to mine. My heart says that he is Ben Robbins, so well does he know me, but I sit confounded by the way I feel about him. Are we in love? I realize as our conversation is sliced by the radio that we have been speaking of such matters, but now we press onwards to the grocery store, urgent to prepare for an impending catastrophe.
The roadside is full of spectators, lawn chairs staked, quilts spread on the muddy ground as hundreds wield binoculars and cameras, oohing and aahing as the sky brightens intermittently with glowing symbols. And then, I am struck. Down from the murky grey spin two strands of DNA, like white-hot jellyfish against the weeping sky. They are larger than life, gigantic, and I am sure that Ben sees them. I try to call for him, want him to see so that I know I am not insane, when one strand grows tiny enough to slip through the crack in my window and onto the skin of my arm. I am branded. It does not hurt, but in the moment that the incandescent creature lays hold of me, I am transported to a strange land.
All about me are people with faces like animals, with clothes like royalty and hands like humans. I am their princess, my coronation moments away. My father stands before me, the fur of his face brown and grey, his snout wolf-like and cold.
"Jiiiklyii swaa henslubrath," he says to me, and I know this language in my heart, understand that he is telling me that now it is up to me to save their land and their people, that I must not fail my mother while she lies in her grave in wait. My dress flows like silk around my human body, but in a far-off mirror I can just see the outline of my face; I am anything but human. I am not afraid, only ready, and I accept my father's words with an iron will, prepared to do something in this life that I might not have had the courage to do in the other. But just as I turn to address the people I am sucked back into the world of UFOs and thunderstorms.
Ben is fiddling with the radio and I realize that what seemed like hours has only been seconds, and the Publix looms closer. The sleeve of my shirt covers my upper arm, but the mark still shows through, a bright strand of white DNA covering my skin like a pulsing tattoo. The parking lot is full but the store is dark and empty, and the line of nearly two hundred people outside the door is growing restless. Yelling ensues, threats against whoever is playing a prank at a time like this when suddenly a meek man is there before the crowd.
"You heard an annoucement on the radio?" He asks quietly, as though no one is really meant to hear him. When met with a resounding yes from all present he says matter of factly, "Then it really is true. You are the Chosen Ones. Please, follow me."
I look at Ben and see fear in his eyes. I take his hand, tell him to trust me, but I know that I need him now more than he shall ever need me.
The interior is really no grocery store at all, rather a large room much like Congress, hundreds of plastic yellow chairs in a semi-circle, all facing a enormous mahagony podium in the center. We take our seats, and still I feel uncertainty in the heat of Ben's skin. Maybe it is a mistake to trust these people, but then again I'm the one who saw a potential future, who feels safe in the alien mark that now scars me. Ben has yet to find his place among them and I know I cannot begrudge him this - I can only hope for him.
A woman with hair like a strawberry meadow sunset whisks her way through the crowd, in and out of the spaces between the chairs, looking but not speaking. I whisper, suddenly, for no reason at all, in the language I spoke in that other world: "Lastteesh likong eeng."
The woman with the amber hair turns to me fiercely, her grey gaze like tearstained stone.
"Yes," she whispers back, in sheer wonder. "Yes, long live the king. You truly are one of the Chosen."
I feel Ben tighten beside me, anger and fear and pride sweeping through him and I am amazed that I can so pinpoint his emotion. It is then that I realize I possess a special power, one that enables me to secretly swim in the hearts and veins of others; it is better than reading minds, for I know somehow that with this power I can rule or ruin mankind.
I look at the woman, meet her tombstone eyes.
"I am ready."


And then I woke up.

trying something new...

Midsummer midnight
We swim in milky moonbeams
Mountain wind
On the glass of our skin
And grass
Our verdant vessel

Two wishes
We throw to the purple-ink sky
Too silent
For our fears are not compliant
To the
Fences of our hearts

I feel
The heat of his smile
Finger lifted
To point how the moon shifted
Dancing stars
A company of players

Painfully aware
In the crook of his arm
Sweet religion
Of pure first love my competition
Plastic smiles
My aching solace

My fingers
Tread the patchwork ocean
Our quilt
Heavy with the heartbroken silt
That sinks
Like lead in my blood

If only
The sky were the ocean
If only
The heart never got lonely
If only
I were dead

Black Snow

The white dress hugs her tightly, her breath shallow as a baby bird's. She moves forward but something is wrong; at her feet lies scattered money. Thousands upon thousands of sketchy green presidents stare up at her as she grips her lillies, shuffles through the flimsy paper sea. It is a tragic waste. Someone should have told her money can't buy love.
They wait for her now on the other side of the stone walls, and they watch her when the doors swing open, rows of blurred smiles, faceless bodies. The organ plays in time with her first step into hell.
"One, two, sway to the macabre rhythm."
It beats whispers into her blood, "The end now is nigh, turn back to save your life."
Blinded by a lightening flash she expects to hear the dooming crack of thunder. She realizes it's only the photographer, begging for her plastic smile, hiding behind his own dead eyes. His job has made him privy to sad secrets. He knows the real end to this beginning.
The sweet baritone of the man whose arm she grips vice-like murmurs incoherently, like the babble of a brook as it smooths away granite, wears the rocks to weakness.
"Daddy, save me!" But no, not out loud, this is only in her mind, and the quiet words still try to soften her hard defense.
Another step and her arm grows heavy, third finger, left hand weighed suddenly with a diamond padlock and she chokes in fear to discover the key she once wore around her neck is turned to dust.
Her steps turn leaden, but Father pulls her forward to the end, to another faceless blur. Except for his eyes. Obsidian, they bear into her, needles on her skin, but Father doesn't see. His kiss upon her cheek is like a teardrop, there and gone, eternity ever after changed with a brush of pale pink lips.
The one with the black eyes takes her hand, cold iron shackles disguised as fingers and no matter how she inconspicuously tries to relieve the burning in her bones, he releases not his grip.
Now before the minister, he hums in his drolling tone what must be the vows, though the words are different than she remembers.
"Repeat, repeat, die or retreat," fall faster and faster to the now-shifting ground below. She is alone with the Iron Man, red desert on all sides, sun high, death nigh, the way the whispers promised.
A child's laughter crackles on the air and in the distance a small girl stands, chained, the metal raw on her dainty skin.
"Who is she?" echoes off the indigo sky until the sharp clink of steel sounds and she sees the chain is hooked to the heavy padlock adorning her hand. Out of the child's mouth suddenly flies a calendar bigger than the noon-day sun. Details are scrawled illegibly across every single date, "Infinity" stamped where once the month appeared.
She looks to the man with her for explanation but sees only boredom in his listless gaze. He seems to look right through her and yet somewhere deep inside she knows he must have loved her long ago, when the Paris river caught the moon and chocolate still stained her lips. He is fading before her very eyes, and even while she wonders why she reaches for him. But it is too late.
Gone are the man and the child and the desert, the maid alone on a canyon's precipice, waving goodbye to the ship that holds her dreams as it sails on the wind. She is left with only her tears, poisoned rivulets running down the snow of her dress, blackness in their wake.

Saffron sun showers her room with golden glitter as the light peeks through the leaves of the wind-blown oak tree.
She awakens.

It is the dawn of her wedding day.

Solemn Sentinels, Stealthy Succubus

The church is airy, the stained glass brilliant with afternoon sunlight and pew after pew of stoic patrons bask in the pulpit's gentle message. A loud pop, and the great wooden doors split in two, crazed sentinels at attention behind the shattered entrance. In they march, two by two, bayonets pointed into horrified faces, confusion etched in every line of their expression.
At the colonel's command, the soldiers give a cry and release the death they hold in their hands. Screams and dissipation ensue as under the wooden pews roll tubes of lethal gas. The guards wear masks, solemnly taking the death toll as one by one the innocent fall into everlasting silence. There is one, however, who does not pass into the afterlife, instead morphing into the most dangerous of all succubi, one who preys on the souls of children to gain strength enough to kill men. She is old, frail, thought to be dead, and so the soldiers leave her there among the lifeless bodies.
There is a river nearby, and in it swim saltwater fish. The newly-turned demon lives by the waters, hoping for passersby, waiting for a child to wander into her trap. Clint Eastwood learns of the danger near the river, however, and stands guard night and day. He is tormented by the loss of one child in his past and he refuses to lose another as he eats his lunch in the wigwam he has fashioned as his stakeout.
Then it is night and the bright fire of a family glitters in the midnight chill. There is a little girl, wise beyond her years, who meets the succubus by the water's edge. She refuses to be led into the warm hut, instead returning hastily to her mother's side, spilling the story to Clint Eastwood as he makes his nightly river rounds.
"She wore the clothes of a child, despite her many years," she says quietly. "She cannot be who she claims."
He thanks the girl and strides with determination to the dank hole where the old woman lives, eager to finally end it forever. But he comes upon her too late - she holds an innocent in her steely, gnarled grasp as Clint Eastwood nears the murky water.
"No!!" he cries feverishly.
Nothing can be done. Bony fingers grip the neck of the child, eyes bulging, face reddening then fading to blue as slowly, slowly the spirit steals the lifebreath of the small victim.
Clint Eastwood knows she is too strong.
She has won.

And then I woke up.

A Mermaid, the Prisoner of Music

The scene of the stage is concrete, grey and splattered through with black gummy circles. Brandon Holcombe charges the stands, purple flag of the colorguard glowing brightly in his left hand. He mocks me with words I cannot hear, but they cut nonetheless. How can it be that I have reverted here to this place I thought I had escaped so thoroughly, a hell of ridicule and anger and hate? I stand in silence as his diatribe continues, the torrent only broken when gunfire echoes off the limestone walls.
Dull bleachers melt away and I stand frozen when I see a gun pointed at me, a black barrel the current god of my universe. The car, the goods, my father - all are there in the blink of an eye and the skinny chocolate man aiming fate in my direction hauls the bundle in his arms into the trunk of my grey compact, swerving his intent to my father instead.
I hear the blast, feel it even, but as I sink to the damp grass I realize my lifeblood remains intact. Again, again, the shot sounds. A scream of agony but it is not mine. I look up from my hazy nest on the ground and see my father, three wounds spewing redness, but I do not move. I know the men will leave if only I play dead.
The peal of old brakes in the distance and in the silence that follows I haul myself to my father, weeping, afraid, urgent. We must go inside the mansion, the one looming now right before us, for it is there that our safety lies.
I fashion a sling from my stockings for my father's arm and we limp through the massive wooden door and into dark tunnels. People appear from every corner, torches held above their heads and I almost weep with joy. They lead me to the weapon room, a woman bidding me choose wisely.
"These," I say, hurriedly removing the intricately designed, oversized letter openers from their stand.
"Yes," said my new friend solemnly, her black eyes bright. "Its true danger lies with its master. Now go! Save the mermaid!"
I am pushed along in a group so large I lose sight of my father, his name drowned by the war cry from the sea of angry people. Black tunnels pierced through with momentary sun are my one comfort for hours, exhaustion imminent and desperation for the end digging cold nails into my skin.
And then suddenly, finally, there is light, and its luminescence shines brightly off the polished surfaces of countless pianos, all glamorous beyond dreams. The room is large, open, and we weave our way through the grand instruments stopping only when we find the mermaid, the enchanted prisoner of music. It is she we must free.
Fair is her skin, dainty is her mouth, and the scales of her tail glitter emerald in the white light. She lays a sad gaze on the flimsy troupe before her, unaware that we are her freedom. No one speaks, but the music plays seamlessly from the hundreds of surrounding pianos, and through the magic of the melody, her chains are broken, the dawn of her escape.
Joy spreads through the graceful mermaid and she lifts her hands in ardent praise.

And then I woke up.

The Nightingale Cries, Too

Florence Nightingale would have a fit. Overused and pilfered through with a million cliches, no one should blame the near-saint for turning over in her grave. Never would it have been predicted that to be called such denotes grave connotations, ones bordering on pathetic, at that. To have injured souls and bruised sentiments sacrificed on the altar of self-respect is a far cry from the healing that Miss Nightingale so aptly gave.
And yet, what is happening to so many women today? The desire to help, to cure, to nurse - the nature of the female heart, surely - has become a distortion which inevitably sprouts self-loathing and begets certain disappointment.
As a constant purveyor of the ravaged male spirit, I am, frankly, exhausted with my seeming inability to accept a man who has not been wounded almost beyond repair. Whether it be involuntary or a twisted form of defense, I nevertheless refuse to meet the eyes of an undamaged fellow.
Fair traits stare me in the face oftentimes, the whole of a man stands in brightness before me, barely scathed by the blades of sordid pasts, of impeded futures. And yet, I look past him, through him, even, to the crouching figure in the dark distance, scars on his skin and waryness in his wake; his disconsolate gaze wreaks havoc on my heart, and with such a glance, I leave the light and run into the shadow, assured only one thing - agony.
I ache to be free of my disease. For a disease it must be, indeed, as it causes pain and hurt so deep that only Father Time may ever see the remedy. In the end, his ocean of tears that I so valiantly tried to stave will do naught but wash over me, even as I attempt to build the wall inside, a dam to fortify my spirit so that it may remain untouched while I purify and bandage and revive.
But it matters not.

I always drown.

Celebrity Sightings

A grueling day of the Boston-Baltimore shuttle loomed blackly in the distance as my crew and I made our way to the cerulean-splashed jetway door in Massachusetts. I noticed him sitting by the big bay-like windows and shot an appraising glace his way as I am apt to do when a chocolate gaze locks mine. His eyes struck me as a pair I'd seen before but the rest of his face was hidden from view as he chattered into his cell, so I boxed up the familiarity to be examined later.
Several "hellos" and "welcome aboards" later and Velvet Eyes was right in front of me as I realized I did recognize his sweet elfin face. He threw an accent-lined joke over his shoulder to his friend and I knew with a start where I precisely I'd seen him.
Boy A.
It was an obscure Indie film I'd rented from Netflix weeks earlier, one rank with a disturbing plot and an ending that was far from satisfactory. Still, this young Brit had given a jolly good performance and I admired his talent for carrying so heavy a movie on his own.
My fellow crewmember Summer suddenly whispered excitedly that Boy A's tow-headed friend was also a purveyor of acting, and starred in a film recently about a theme park in 1987. Hurriedly I checked the manifest for their names, but unfortunately Jesse Eisenberg and Andrew Garfield were gonna need Google's help before I made a fool of myself. A minute later and Summer's iPhone lit with the answer - indeed we had movie stars on board.
They all settled in and the gate agent mentioned a group was altogether and I determined it must be a production company of some sort due to their equipment bags and computers. I felt a bit star-struck, mostly because I hadn't seen much of a smile out of either boy and I wondered if they would be kind.
Twenty minutes later, after the seatbelt sign went ding and I served drinks, Adventureland got up to stretch his legs.
"So let me ask you something," I said as cooly as possible when he approached the plastic-coated floor of the galley.
"What was it like being in a film with Bella Swan?"
I watched his adorable awkwardness as he pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose and seemed to falter for a moment.
"Oh, uh, Kristen Stewart?"
"Yes, didn't she star in Adventureland with you?"
He grinned. "Yes, yes she did, and it was awesome working with her. She's a lot of fun. Did you see the movie?"
I shrugged sheepishly.
"Well, I will tell you that I wanted to see it, but once I realized that Kristen Stewart starred, I rethought my decision. Anything she has ever been in has sucked in my opinion. I don't think she can act."
"Well, I wouldn't judge her until you've seen Adventureland. I haven't seen Twilight because my friend said it was so incredibly ridiculous."
"Your friend was right!" I laughed.
"Yeah, it sucks to be famous for such a dumb movie. Everyone sort of assumes that's all you can do."
"So your friend back there, the one who fell asleep, wasn't he in Boy A?"
He gaped at me.
"You've seen his film?"
I laughed. "Well, yeah, I'm a big Indie film fan and I'm pretty much obsessed with Netflix. But I thought he did an excellent job!"
"Don't ruin the end for me! I've only seen the first twenty minutes. But he's not gonna believe you've seen it! I'm gonna go wake him up and tell him."
"No, don't do that!" I giggled. "I'm sure I'll have a chance to talk to him. But in the meantime, can I have a picture with you once I finish service?"
He smiled broadly.
"Sure thing."

I hurried to serve the rest of the cabin, noting sadly that Boy A never roused from slumber, laughing inwardly as he channled his character by bearing an outfit similar to one in the film. Service completed, I passed by Jesse's seat and noticed he was reading one of my favorite books, "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime."
"Good book."
He looked up in surprise.
"You've read this?"
"Yeah, and my favorite part is at the end," I said as I quoted my favorite line. He followed me to the galley as we continued our conversation, and Summer snapped our photo while I teased him about misjudging my blonde roots.
We discussed all manner of things as the flight hour drew to a close.
Where the Wild Things Are.
His disappoinment with Little Mermaid on Broadway. My enchantment with it.
Queens, NYC, his hometown.
An argument about which Office version is better, UK or US.
His newest film role, Mark Zuckerburg, founder of Facebook, also a victim of Asperger's Syndrome. Hence the reason for his current book.
My plans to teach English overseas.
My favorite independent films.
Zombieland, The Squid and the Whale - his other major films.
My keen interest in diversity.
Our mutual love of Seattle.
Discussing if indeed Libras and Geminis are compatible.
We laughed and teased and I was surprised at his down-to-earth attitude.
The seatbelt sign came on and still we talked. I noticed with glee that Boy A was now awake and Jesse prodded me to speak to him.
"It'll make his day."
I skittered to his seat as he pushed his beret from his sleepy eyes, and congratulated him on a job well done. He beamed.
"Thank you so much," he purred in his British tenor. "So where are you from?" he asked, as if it were hard to tell with an accent like mine. I laughed, affecting an exaggerated twang.
"I'm from Georgia. Cain't ya tell?"
"Ah, but it's a beautiful accent." He grinned. "The Brits have a thing for it!"
I mentioned how alike his character he appeared, with his hood flung over his hat and the zipper to his neck.
"Ach, I promise I don't always wear hoodies," he said sheepishly, ears crimson as he pushed his hood back and unzipped his jacket. I giggled.
"Come take a picture!" I playfully demanded as I marched back to the galley.
Jesse followed suit and I snuggled myself next to Andrew as Summer readied the camera.
"Wow, this is quite a change! Usually I'm the one snapping pictures of fans with Jesse."
I wiggled closer and said cheese and beckoned for Jesse in a group shot.
"Oh how lucky am I! Two hotties in one photo! Doesn't happen very often," I teased.
"I'm pretty sure we are the lucky ones, what with a hottie stewardess and all," Boy A grinned at me.
The camera went flash and Adventureland turned to Boy A.
"Did she tell you? Did you tell him?" He turned to me in earnest.
"Tell him what?"
"Your life plan and all that. You know, teaching and Seattle and your favorite films."
"But why do you want to know about me? You're the movie stars here!" I protested with a laugh.
"Because you're interesting and smart." He turned to Andrew. "Dude, she's quoting my book!"
"Is that right? Impressive. Sorry I slept the entire flight or we could have chatted. But Jesse told me you liked my film so I knew it was safe to relax," he siad in mock seriousness.
"Yes, well, I think Jesse and I may have discovered we are soulmates, so alike are we." I threaded my arm through Jesse's. "But then again, I'm a sucker for accents, so maybe it's you, Andrew." I sidled over to him.
"Nice," Boy A beamed at me.
"Well, I have an accent!" Jesse proclaimed. "A New York accent, different from yours, does that count?"
"Boys, boys, feel free to fight over me!"
They laughed and sadly it was time to land, so we all reluctantly took our seats. Upon leaving both boys gave me enormous hugs and I wished them luck in their careers. I was sad to see them go and thought how unfortunate that we couldn't be friends.
"Remember me when you read my favorite quote!" I yelled after Jesse.
"I couldn't forget," he smiled, and with a wink, he disappeared into the distance.

Flood

Father sky sends drips and drops and deluge but the bridge remains steadfast. Angry currents rush beneath the cement foundation, hissing against the grassy bank, thwarted in an escape from the predestined path.
She stands in the middle of the treacherous swell, my sister, the icy froth to her thighs and slowly climbing. Furniture floats in her grasp, all colors, mint bookcase, cerulean armoir, red-rose chair. I wonder that she doesn't grip the edges of the rainbow suite, and I scream that time is of the essence. She can't hear me.
Or she doesn't want to.
The splash of tears swirls with cold rain on my cheek, my admonition carried away by the sprites on the wind and all is silent, silent, silent.

I open my eyes to the interior of a leasing cottage, flooded, the water deep enough to cover the tips of my shoes.
"Ready?" A voice behind me.
It is Alesha, and this is to be our new home, creeping brown stains now our nearest and dearest companion.
"You're sure about this?" Already the sour pungence of drowned carpet is threatening.
"We get to stay one night, just to try it out," Alesha prods.
I concede without protest, in a daze, only aware that one night is too long in a place like this while the winter air burns my rain-soaked skin.

The dark comes but my eyes open wider, straining for a way out. I try the door only to realize there is no escape, a lock on every outlet, no window or door left unchecked.
I glance at Alesha.
She sleeps, haphazardly lying on the dining room table, and I vaguely wonder why she didn't take the bed. Something urges me to let her rest, that she will be of more use to me if I do. But the blackness is becoming palpable, the steely fingers of panic pulling at the edge of the dark room.
"Daylight, daylight, I beseech thee, come quickly." The words fall from silent lips, vanishing snowflakes in the November chill of midnight.

And finally, sun bursts through the faded frilly curtains and Alesha bounds awake, energy popping from her like electricity.
"Let's go! I'm sold!"
Taking my hand she leads me to the next room, bare but for the plain desk and pre-PC era computer taking up most of the metal surface. Behind it stands the agent, gangly and pale with a shock of orange hair like the fires of ancient Rome.
No words, but she motions to the chairs in front of her without ceremony and I slowly sink to the cold pine seat. I hear my father's voice as he warns against this place. I wish I could see him so I would feel safe.

And then I woke up.

Blue Desert

Another dream...

Two weeks from now I am moving, but where I’m going I know not. Neither do I know who will help me move all of my belongings, for my current roommate and best friend has already packed all of her things and gone away from me. I head back to the bed where my current boy toy resides, all dark skin and hair and eyes. I lament my lack of help, mourning the loss of strong men in the world and then I hurry to answer my cell phone in the other room. I get a strict verbal lashing from my parents, a scolding for not being able to find any good friends in the world, ones who will stick by and help me when the world calls for true friends. Suddenly Boy Toy and one of his chocolate friends appear beside me and offer the service of their incredibly thick arms. I accept with nary a token refusal. One can never have too many men with guns.

Soon I leave the yellow-wallpapered flat behind and take up residence in a nearby mall, one that provides room, board, work, and a meal ticket to the expansive food court. Everywhere I go I notice Amazonian women, tall, with shoulders like men and boxy clothes that don’t flatter in color or style. I wonder if a drag show takes place after hours in one of the many theatres, and I begin to wonder if perhaps I might get a job in one of the dramatic theatres myself. Indeed there is a musical theatre a few steps from my hotel room door and I prepare for my audition with much vigor.
And then there he is as I stand by the staircase to run lines with the wall. Eyes like a violet sunset, skin like the Sahara, a deliciously full mouth and I ache to trail my finger down the marble edge of his jaw. I am instantly in love and I wonder at the fact that I can see his entire face. My dreams usually hide the visage of the men I fall for. He just stares, and my knees buckle as I sink to the floor, the taffeta of my ridiculous Victorian-era costume in a tangle around my feet and I feel the heat of embarrassment on the tips of my ears. He walks closer, offers to teach me how to dance, says he knows my part in the play calls for it. I accept but don’t ask his name. That would spoil the mystery and I like the tickle of forbidden love in my blood.
I see him throughout the next few days, but never do we speak. Never do I ask him to dance. His skin touches mine, once, as I sit on a bench to watch people and contemplate my uncharacteristic loneliness. I see him approach and he reaches out to me, silently, and I take his hand and almost flinch at the fire in his fingertips. His eyes burn sapphire into mine and I hold his hand until he walks away, the edges of our fingers gripping frantically to prolong the hot contact. My mouth aches as if he has kissed me, bruised me with his teeth.
Then one day he asks me to dance with him, and tells me the time to meet him at his room, as he lives in the mall, too. I have no idea he was so close and thrill to the knowledge of what might happen when his body presses against mine as twilight dawns. I ask my only friend, Ebony, the head maid, for the master key in case I lose mine in the throes of impending passion.

Only once do I fly, and as I work the flight I receive a vicious ferret bite and a passenger with no seat, only to be discovered during takeoff. I thank God that I can walk out that day and leave such drama behind. After all, I have the dance lessons to look forward to.
And then I woke up. Sadly.

And Tiffany Takes the Cake

Ironic, unfair, cruel. Synonyms for life, all.
Selfish, fickle, heartbroken against her will, synonyms for the fair maid on the wrong side of the glass.
How could it be that only twenty four weeks ago, five hundred and seventy six hours past, he had claimed her as the mate of his soul? For now here she stood, hidden as she watched, and tried not to whimper too loudly when she saw the sun catch the diamond meant for another through the window of that blue-box store called Tiffany's.

She didn't want a sterling silver circle on her finger just now. No, not now. But someday. She aches for it at times. Maybe when she grew up a little and lived life...maybe it could have been like her fantasy where she met him again when the time was right and her heart and head no longer warred.
But those days now seem as fleeting as that glint of blinding golden sun. Over in a flash, hopes of her future snatched away and she ponders how much he really loved her. Oh she knows she ended it. She knows that if she had stayed the course it would be her before whom he knelt on bended knee and opened that midnight-lined robin's egg. Still, she can't help but wonder if it was her he wanted or merely the white dress and tux and two-story picket-fenced house.

She knows he will invite her to the wedding but he doesn't know she'd be a walking lie, all plastic smiles and cold skin that would forever remain bereft of his touch. No, she couldn't bear to watch them laugh and cry and vow while she is an empty tomb. Her soul would die at the sight of threading nightlights catching love in their gaze. She knows that he will feel a sense of relief at her decline, although he won't recognize it as such.

It's better this way, in the end. She wouldn't be happy. She wasn't happy. That was why she said goodbye in the first place. She knows it was foolish to think he might wait for her. And she does love him even if she never fell in all the way; that's why she has to let him go and be happy and try her hardest not to let him hear the catch in her voice when she bids him a bounty of blessings.
The Universe beckons and Freedom sings and the fair maid still holds the key to her heart's cage.
That's the way she has always wanted it, after all.

Rendezvous at Dusk

Esmerelda glanced at the pink buds blooming on the limb's end outside her window. She wished he might poetically reduce the tint of her full mouth to the brillant shade of innocence those flowers sang. But how could he? She hadn't yet spoken to him. And she wouldn't, although her flatmate and best friend, Allie, prodded and probed and perforce interrogated her on the lack of gumption she possessed. No, Essie was old fashioned and meek, and for now the only help she allowed Allie to bestow on her was the use of the hot rollers on the vanity.
Essie flinched when her mocha fingers touched the sizzling plastic-coated metal. It was no use. She wasn't sure what had ever made her think that curls bouncing in her raven locks would capture his attention.
"He will notice because you will make him notice, dear. First rule of womanhood - flaunt your assets. A man who sees a lake of voluminous tresses such as yours is only going to imagine one thing. His hands. Threaded through. In the Throes. Of. Passion."
Allie had grinned knowingly, the diamond on her finger glinting as they stood at the jewelry counter on Third Avenue.
"You're only asking the Flirt of the Year, of course, so I completely understand if you deem me an uncredible source."
Allie had a intermittent itch to visit the local jewelers and try on the newest inventory. She always insisted to the clerk that she was happily single - it was merely something she was trying on for size. Allie laughed at the idea of committment. Sometimes Essie laughed with her, but mostly she felt sorry for Allie. She knew a facade when she saw one. She was the posterchild for disguises, after all.
And so she sighed deeply and curled the black silk of her hair around the first roller, setting it with the grave air of one resigned to failure.

_______________________________________

Laughter and sunshine burst into the quiet room later that day as Essie finished donning the black sweater mother sent last week.
Allie stopped short.
"Oh my dear Essie. What have we here? No, no, no. This shall not do. He'll never kiss you while you appear in mourning!"
"But it isn't as if he has even asked me out! Let alone spoken to me...what makes you think I shall ever receive a kiss?"
"Ha! With that attitude, nothing does!"
Allie skipped to her overflowing closet. "I know you like to wear my things on occasion but this time we are going all out!"
She set out the sleek red dress straight out of the local vintage shop with a flourish. Essie's eyes grew huge.
"How ridiculous. Whereever would I wear a contraption like that? Remember, it was your idea to 'accidentally meet on purpose.' What shall I tell him when the question in his eyes begs to know why I am dressed like I'm attending a 40's Detective Lollpalooza?"
Allie's gaze was full of challenge.
"I don't know, Esmerelda. You're the one with all the stories. Why not play pretend when you by chance fall into step with him at half past five this evening? Spice of life, my dear. You gotta add it to the mix or you'll taste just the same as everyone else."

______________________________________

Essie felt like Cinderella. She was most certainly as conspicuous as the fairytale maiden right now. The bench in Hyde Park was growing colder beneath the scarlet fabric of her dress as the wind blew in the remnants of winter's chill. More than one handsome pair of eager eyes had taken in the sight of her there beneath the blooming dogwoods, and against her will Essie felt her blood run hot with appreciation.
It wouldn't be long now till she caught sight of the light brown tweed of his coat. Surely he would be passing this way and she rehearsed the ludicrous scene in her head as she remembered that Allie said the right story would come.

Oh god, there he was. Essie was certain the cinnamon and chocolate plaid coat adorning his lean frame must have been passed through more than one generation. It was worn, but it looked well loved, and for that its threadbare cords were dear. Strong fingers clasped the handle of his briefcase and she wondered at this for she had always thought him to be a satchel sort of guy. No matter. He was coming her way and she found she was having trouble breathing as each step brought him closer to her cold bench.
From a safe distance her eyes searched his face, that beautiful sculpture of fine white marble, cheekbones carved high and straight, the set of his mouth tinted with hints of secrets. She found herself aching to know those secrets, and she wondered what this young professor had to hide.
She didn't want to speak first. What would she say? What reason would she give for randomly bursting out with a salutation she was sure would wobble and squeak?
But leave it to her hero to save the day.
His brown loafer stepped even with her bench.
"Well, hello," he said, dark chocolate laced through with a honeyed American accent.
Speak to him, you dope!!!
Allie flitted through her thoughts - "Spice of life..."
Essie didn't want to taste the same as everyone else. Cue the grand actress.
"Hello yourself." Her voice was throaty, more so than she had meant it to be, but she recalled that great American sex symbol, Scarlett Johannson, and she kept the husk in her tone.
"Beautiful evening," she purported, hoping it might spur a conversation.
"Indeed, midnight stars are my favorite. New York was never big on open sky," he chuckled somewhat ruefully. "Say, don't I know you? Forgive my frankness, but you just seem familiar."
Her thoughts flew harriedly. Had he caught her watching him those Tuesday afternoons in the library? She often sat mesmerized by the alabaster of his brow furrowed over midterm papers, the diligent scratching of his red pen, the way he took his coffee black in that styrofoam cup. God she sounded pathetic. She hadn't meant to watch him all the time, but the library was her dearest friend on days that Allie had a date - which was most of the time - and so it was only natural that she should find him there on occasion.
"The library," he said jovially, startling her from her reverie. She was encouraged by his tone.
"Y-yes, I'm there occasionally."
"Yes. Oh I know! Last Tuesday you borrowed Anna Karenina. Tolstoy? I remember thinking how impressive it was that you chose to read it of your own accord."
Essie looked at him in confusion.
"I uh, I overheard you tell the librarian that you wanted to read it a second time now that you were older." He grinned sheepishly. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."
Joy bubbled up in her throat and erupted in a relieved giggle, one she hoped he didn't realize was bordering on hysteria.
"I do love Tolstoy so. And Dante and Shakespeare and Hugo. Karachi was never big on modern novels so I found myself a friend of the Greats. Not that I'm complaining, of course."
"Karachi, eh? I was there once, when I was twenty.That was five years ago, although I know I don't appear a day over fifteen." He grinned at her. "I was most enthralled by the colors. It's like the shades of my soul were splashed on every street corner. I flashed away with my camera, eager to bring that vibrance back home to my apartment in Manhattan. Later I found that my photos didn't turn out the way my eyes took in the scene but I wasn't really disappointed. I just tucked the memory away and vowed to go back one day. Speaking of colors, that's quite a dress you've got on there."
The moment of fact or fiction. No way could she tell him the truth, so she spurted out what Allie was most likely to say - that she had gotten ditched by her date to the opera and wasn't that the most scandalous thing he'd ever heard?
"We were supposed to meet here, and have dinner across the street and well, I decided to make the most of the evening by having a conversation with my favorite bench."
She smiled at him.
He smiled back. A bigger smile than hers, even.
He glanced at his watch.
"Well, I know I'm probably not much compared with that grand date you had - that dress is enough to woo even the most hardened of hearts."
She felt the brown smoothness of her skin heat with a flush at his bold words.
"Still, Mr. Sun is going to bed soon and there is the best coffee joint around the corner and down the next alley. Sounds shady, I know, and I'm sure we look like a couple straight out of Hitchcock's classics, but I'm willing to bet I'm more interesting than that maple bench you've replaced as your date. And I know you're certainly much too beautiful for such a drab companion. So whaddya say we give it a go?"
What did she say? She sang a thousand hallelujahs to the distant hills in her heart but outside she merely cocked her head to the side and relished his admiring green gaze. She took his offered hand and rose to stand beside him, almost swooning at the height he was afforded by his Creator.
"I'd love to. By the way, I'm Essie."
He winked at her.
"Alex Von Sky, at your service."

And one by one they took the knife

Another dream. It's official, people. I am screwed up in the head. Lol.

I was vacationing alone at an ocean resort, complete with plenty of activities and gorgeous men to lead those activties. Two of those beautiful men certainly caught my eye and I flirted like mad. With blonde waves that curled about his ears and eyes bluer than the nearby sea, I set my sights on Jeff, certain that by the end of my time there he would surely be mine.
It was a shock to all the vacationers when we learned that Sean, Jeff's best friend and my other romantic interest, had disappeared from the resort, nowhere to be found. All the tenants and employees searched but to no avail, certain that he must have been swallowed by the bright salty ocean.
And then one day in mid-afternoon, rejoicing went throughout the resort - Sean had been found and Jeff was on his way to bring the hero home. I was more thrilled than anyone and waited up all night just to be the first to see him home, sure that the boys would notice my devotion and fall in love.
Suddenly, I was whisked away and floating high above the earth, aware that I was using what the resort called their UFO's - a hanglider shaped like a tire. I hung on for dear life, afraid of falling and disappearing in the dark water that loomed below.
Sounds of frantic splashing caught my attention and I peered through the night to spot the source. There they were, Jeff and Sean, struggling together, and I beamed when I saw Jeff lift Sean aboce the water to rescue his friend.
In horror I realized I was happy too early. In the next instant, Jeff slammed his friend back beneath the murky surface of the water and held him there even as Sean tried to scrape and kick his way out of Jeff's murderous grasp.
The bright beams of a rescue helicopter shot through midnight's blanket and illuminated the boys, and in an effort to appear innocent, Jeff waved for help and lifted his unconscious friend to safety.
But I knew better.
Like a flash the scene appeared before me - Jeff and Sean were lovers, and resort rules forbade dating within the realms of employees and most definitely frowned upon homosexuals. Jeff confronted Sean, declaring he'd lived in shadow long enough, and wanted to take their relationship public. Sean loved his job and had worked hard to maintain his position, and not even Jeff could make him give it up.
And so, there in the night's shroud, Jeff had taken the life of his one and only love, not aware of what he did until the light shone on his transgression and he frantically tried to right his wrong.
But it was too late.
Sean was dead. And no one knew that I carried so treacherous a secret.

At least, I thought no one knew. A letter came in the mail days later detailing the gruesome death and admonished anyone in the resort to come clean with any information they had concerning the murder.
I remained quiet. No way could I betray Jeff.
Even though I knew he'd never be in love with me I was loyal to him in a way that Sean never was and I was determined that he should know that one day.
And then suddenly there were only six of us left in the gigantic resort, and I was an employee rather than a guest. Jordan Robinson was the butler, so to speak, and headed up all of our duties. It was our job to find the killer.
We only had three days. What would happen if we failed was only hinted at, but all roads led to inevitable death and yet I remained steadfast. I wouldn't tell.
And so began the horrors.
The walls of the resort were ever shrinking and at times I barely escaped before rooms swallowed me in their sheetrocked mouths. Once I found a room that belonged to a musician and I tried singing in hopes that it might save me from the grave. Instead all I saw was the stuffed head of a dead black cat floating before me and I knew death was close behind.
At night I shut all the blinds in every room, frightened that whatever power was taking over the house could watch from the cloak of darkness. It was no use - no sooner had I shut them than they were forced open, leaving us exposed and naked to the terrors of midnight.
And finally, the zombies came. We all sat around the table, Jordan desperately trying to keep us calm, when suddenly his expression went completely slack and his skin seemed to melt off his face.
We all screamed.
Jumped away from him.
And that's when I knew Jordan knew that I knew who killed Sean.
"It's up to you to save us now," he said with his eyes, moments before they became glazed with the steely intent of murder.
And somehow I knew what to do.
"Get a pot of boiling water!" I screamed. The others hastened to bring it and I instructed them to hold the steam next to his misshapen face. I sighed with relief as it began to go back to its original form. But then I saw his fangs and fingernails-turned-claws and knew I had to take more action.
I grabbed the nearest kitchen knife we all kept for protection from the curse.
I put the knife to his throat.
I cut him with one clean slice, and watched his blood drain into the pot of boiling water, praying that this was indeed the answer. And then, slowly, Jordan appeared back in the bright blue eyes of the monster before us, and we thrilled to the knowledge that we had beaten the final test.
It took us a moment to realize it would have to happen to all six of us before the curse was broken. We looked at each other in horrified silence.
Who would be next?
Jordan healed in record time, relunctant to detail the feelings he'd had during his "possession", aware that each of us had to endure the horror, and trying to spare us as much worry as possible.
"Just be ready," he advised.
It took several hours, but one by one each remaining person would begin the melt, and each time we had to use the steam machine and drain them of their evil blood.
Finally, I was the only one left.
They all looked at me nervously, knowing they would be free to go after I underwent my transformation.
Then the pain seized me.
I could barely even think, but I noticed in terror that no one made any move to help me. They remained where they sat and I screamed while I still could to please, please, just cut me.
Time was running out. I could feel my skin dropping off.
"Jordan?" I pleaded in a whisper.
Suddenly he grabbed the knife and held it to my throat, the sharp edge cold against my burning skin.
"Thank you," I mouthed to him.

And then I woke up.

Rafters of Salvation

Training for the new airline took place beside the beach, the sandy edge of the coastline white with pristine grains. The hotel was immaculate, and much to my pleasant surprise, the uniforms were tailor-made and colorful beyond any other airline I had ever seen.
I was proud to work for such a company and had hopes that my career would prosper and last for many years. The fellow crewmembers were friendly and young and we spent afternoons lazing by the blue water, studying in the yellow sun.
Halfway through training, though, new arrivals showed up.
The came bearing old clothes and battered luggage, and nary a hair nor face was ever checked in a mirror. They crowded our hotel, the dirt from their bodies leaving stains on the white furniture. We all loathed them.
They never spoke, or moved for that matter. We had to step over them to prepare for class, carefully avoiding their ugliness, afraid it might rub off and mar the "real" employees.
I could do nothing to jeopardize this job. A day came, though, when one of my friends went off on the ragmuffins, and at that moment all hell broke loose.
It was like a riot, fists flying, the smack of skin on skin echoeing over the roar of their mingled voices. I watched as if I were an outsider, angered that these fools were ruining my chances at a good job, and I refused to join in.
That's when we heard it.
The clink of white china sounded like hundreds of chattering teeth, and I vaguely wondered at this since no china existed at the hotel.
Enormous windows lined each wall and in the confusion of the mob, I caught a terrifying view of the monster outside.
"You did this!" I screamed to the fighting crowd, in a voice far too loud to belong to me.
Suddenly they ceased their fire and followed my horrified gaze. The ocean stood as tall as the Empire State Building in the distance, and I knew that at our inability to get along had angered the peaceful sea gods and they were smiting us for our wicked ways.
Suddenly the hotel melted away and I stood in an enormous plane hangar, the yellow bars of the rafters high enough to be my salvation if only I could reach them.
The rest of the group scattered, knowing there was little time to reach high ground before the waves took them to their cerulean graves. Rocky cliffs graced the landscape behind the training center, and so in their high heels and leather loafers, the newly united enemies held hands and gripped granite as they tried to evade death.
I ran to the nearest handhold, the walls of the hangar like a magic yellow ladder as I caught a glimpse of a rafter so high it seemed to reside in the clouds. I climbed, faster and faster, tears on my face as I watched my weaker comrades fall to their deaths, but there was nothing I could do, so I pushed onward to the yellow bridge.
Heather Locklear was climbing directly above me, and she turned to shout that even if we reached the rafters, it would be days before a rescueing crew could help us climb down again. The water would still be too high, she said, and for a moment I almost let go and fall, tempted by an instant death. But something inside me said not to trust her, so I ignored the warning and climbed higher still.
Then the wave hit.
The walls shook me like a rat in a dog's mouth, and I held on till my fingers dripped blood. I watched my friends disappear into the frothy white water, and it spurred me onward. The rafter was in my reach, but just as I threw my leg over the cold metal bar, another wave slammed into the building and I was catipulted into a muddy crater on the top of a nearby mountain.
Suddenly I was surrounded by hundreds of naked people clustered together, dried mud caked on their bodies like a second skin. I noticed that my clothes were missing, too, but strangely that only made me feel more at ease with these people. They were natives to the crater, and even children ran around the brown landscape. I noticed that tunnels existed in the side of the mountain, and when I asked what they were for, they said it was our only escape back into the world I had just left, that we must work together in order to make it back to our loved ones. They had been here a long time, and it seemed they were waiting for me to begin the journey back to their pasts.
It took us days, but slowly we passed through the tunnels, at times only big enough for one to crawl on hands and knees. Everyone was frightened, but together we encouraged one another in the dark, sure we would make it back to restore our families.
And then - sunlight! We all wept tears of joy as indeed we came through on the other side of the mountain, the ocean that had been my demise only days before now placid and turquoise.
I frantically searched for my family, certain they must be there among the wreckage.
I watched as each of my new friends was reunited with their people, the families dressed in their Sunday best, making the survivors all acutely aware of our nakedness.
I still hadn't found my family when I suddenly spotted my mother standing on a wooden porch, remniscent of the house where she grew up. She had on a white hat and gloves and I wondered why everyone insisted on dressing like it was Easter.
Screaming her name, I flung myself into her arms and wept, asking about the rest of the family. As she said each of their names, my father, followed by each of my siblings appeared beside her.
I hugged them all in turn, realizing that my brothers, Jon and Jamie, were missing.
"Mom, where are the boys??" I asked in a panic.
She leveled a dead gaze on me and said flatly, "I have no idea."
I knew they must be dead.

And then I woke up.

The Devil Wears a Halo

Worship. It was sprawled across his features in the early morning sunlight and she shrank from her reflection in his cornflower gaze. He thought she wore a halo but what he really saw was the glow of the golden pitchfork she so deftly hid behind her back.
She knew this.
He didn't.
A whisper of a sigh escaped her mouth and before she could catch it, it fell on his ears.
"What is it?" A gently posed question but she doubted he realized the danger belied in such a query.
What if? She pondered.
What if she threw caution to the wind and let him spy the pitchfork?

I need a man, she would say.
I need a man with a backbone. Being with you is like being with a spineless guppy, all puppy dog eyes and silent agreement when I tell you that you're wrong.
When are you going to yell at me?
For God's sake, when will you finally tell me no?
I want to hear the edge in your voice as you defy me. Just once I'd like nothing better than to feel the heat of your eyes, a fiery ocean of anger only calmed by a stolen kiss in the rain hours later. Don't you realize that all the times I raise my tone it is merely in the hope that maybe this is the time you fight back?
I need you to slow down. To let me set the pace of our relationship. To not say things that I'm not ready for you to say.
"I love you" fell from your lips thirty days after your eyes locked mine and I feel guilty that only I know I was lying when I said it back.
But you painted me into a corner and wouldn't take "I'm not ready" for an answer, so I put on my work boots and trudged through self-doubt to please you. I thought that if I "gave you a chance" in the end I might find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but instead the gleam I saw on the far hill was the sun shining on the mirror of self-reflection. I looked hard at the girl staring back at me, gripped by panic when I realized it was through your eyes and I was fast becoming an undeserving goddess.
How was I to live up to such a standard?
And how do I tell you that you fail to make me burn, that your mouth leaves me wanting something more, something you can never give me? I think of the kiss of another man so long ago; you are sugar when I need salt and sometimes too much sweetness can make me sick.
I realize I am accusing you of being too nice and isn't that the oldest line in the book? I have placed judgment on too many women for me to ever speak those words out loud. I can't bear to be called a hypocrite. For that is surely what I am. I want to say I can chalk it up to naivety, that I had no knowledge of such feelings until they were thunderously upon me, but somewhere deep inside I know that is merely an excuse.
But how to tell you all of this? How to say all my doubts aloud and still expect you to believe that I truly think you are the best man who has ever loved me?
Is it really your fault that you do the things you do or is it because I let you? If you don't know what I want how can I ever place the blame on your shoulders?
I am afraid to tell you, though, because maybe I know that if I do you will eventually leave and for once I'd like to reserve the right to walk out first.
Perhaps I am entitled to issue a broken heart - but then again, one reaps what one sows and I scurry from the thought of dripping mascara and worded heartache scribbled in the moonlight.
Maybe I don't tell you because I am selfish. Because I like having someone. Because maybe if you do as I ask I will resent you for changing into someone that you really aren't, someone you don't even like.
I am not the sort of girl who goes against intuition, pursuing a romance once my heart screams otherwise. But for you, I did, and maybe all of this is actually self-loathing projected onto you, an undeserving passerby, and I'm glad you don't taste the indecision in my midnight kisses.
But can I really say all of this? What am I going to gain? I sit here and feel your fingertips on my skin and I know I won't do it.
And I know you will be none the wiser.

So she let him kiss her and shut her eyes to hide her soul.
But then the time soon came that it was indeed over and she rejoiced in the freedom of her spirit until one day retribution caught up with her.
She watched in agony as one by one the women in her life became victims of heartbreak, their cries an icy chain on her feeling of relief. There were so many murders that it seemed a cruel joke and she could do nothing but gaze on each killing with a fascinated horror.
There was her Cousin, the dark-haired beauty, so loyal in her love for him, so willing to give second chances where second chances were never deserved. She devoted years to the hope of their future.
How it made the one with Freedom weep to see the day he sliced her cousin’s heart in two with a dull knife, as she screamed for him to stop, and he just laughed as she fell to the floor. It was so calculated, so cold, and she lay in the pool of her soul’s blood while he walked away arm in arm with another woman.
And then the Sister of Her Heart, the one who shared all her secrets, was one day finally happy.
“He wants me!” she lauded, but Free Heart knew better than to trust him. His eyes were dark with secrets but there was no convincing her friend.
“His arms are true when I am feeling blue and I know him better than you,” she stewed.
But this time Free Heart was right and so she was there to hold her friend when the fateful Monday came and he picked up the phone to make that most cowardly of all exits.
The Sister of Her Blood spent a year with the one she loved, in a country of palms and sandy roads. He strummed romance on his guitar, crooning lullabies under the starry sky and she knew she had never been more content in life. The year came to a close and he promised meetings on other shores, but the day she sailed her boat to his home and waited to be taken in open arms, he slammed the door of his heart with nary an explanation. She clung to the stern as she treaded the waters of confusion, her added tears almost enough to drown in.
The Indian Princess was sweeter than peach pie in August, and for a while it seemed the two of them were happy. He brought flowers and called her beautiful and said she was his love. She gave and gave and gave, never expecting anything in return, and soon enough he took that for granted. She sat in the corner while he laughed boisterously with the other men gathered around the TV and never took the time to look into her big brown eyes anymore. She realized she carried a slingshot in his World of Warcraft and it wasn’t enough to win the battle. So he left and she cried and threw her flimsy weapon in with the towel.
The Fellow Flight Attendant brought word of a brand new man, tall, dark, and carrying the keys to an airplane. Free Heart knew where this was headed but offered support in spite of her own distrust. First lie – I’m single. Second lie – I have no children. Third lie – You can trust me, I promise. When news of his unfaithfulness reached the ears of the free heart, she was saddened but not shocked at the demise of her friend’s new marriage.
The Stand-Up Comedienne had laughs-a-plenty with the dark-eyed beau she snagged from her past. Regular text-message updates filled the inbox of Free Heart as her funny friend reveled in a new romance. Months and months of midnight ecstasy but suddenly it ended and the comic stopped smiling as she searched for an answer. The reason for her constant grin now eyed the heart of another man and she felt the rays of stunned grief flow through her like sand in a sieve. Doubt and disgust and derision made their way into her heart and she wiped from her mind the memory of his kiss.
The Southern Blonde loved him for two years, longer, really, but he had officially been hers for seven hundred days. Marriage loomed on the horizon, and she felt sure that soon he would kneel on his beautiful knee and propose, her nights filled with dreams of children and picket fences and fishing by the lake. But the day she never expected was soon upon her and with no warning he packed his bags and walked out, putting the ring she thought was hers on the hand of the other woman. She was the one who would get the giggling babies and quaint cottage and catfish dinners. Grief consumed the one with the sandy-blonde curls.
The Pixie Virgins had a charm that led men to their door with merely a wink. They filed out in lines so long it seemed they had no end, and the Pixie sisters had hope that at least one decent man existed among the hoards. But time and again they reached the question the men most wanted answered and when the beauties said no, they bounded quickly away from the sweet-tempered interview. Given the nature of the sisters, though, the men still left marks and it was only a matter of time before the Pixies became scarred for life.
The Childhood Friend stared into his big velvet eyes and fell with no handhold. She was sure he would catch her. He promised with his flowery words that he wanted no one's heart but hers. But the distant beat of drums called him elsewhere and before she could grip the hem of his coat to keep him by her side, he had followed the music and left her behind. The moon shone through the window onto her beautiful, tear-streaked face, and she endlessly questioned what she could have done to make him stay.

Free Heart saw all of this and she cried until there were no tears left. Again she pondered her state of soul.

I am now a graveside mourner, except the coffin holds the broken heart of the man I left and I can do nothing but transform into a cliché, missing what treasure I had until it was gone and now I am alone with my grief and second thoughts.
Is this what I have to look forward to? A lifetime spent sweeping up glass hearts and diamond tears? I wonder if I am due any near misses or if my punishment shall be to lie on the torturer’s table and wait for his heinous tools.
A Free Heart. That is what I have called myself. But now I know that I would give it back to the captivity of love, for such freedom frightens me with its unknown risks.
I think I gave it up too quickly. I can do nothing now to rescind my decision, for the victim of my affliction has been granted a fresh beginning, and even if I made my sorrow known, he wouldn’t hear it over the voice of his new true love. I saw her once, her ruddy, uneven complexion and less than chic style obviously of no concern to him.
Perhaps he sees more depth and truth in her eyes than he saw in mine and I can’t blame him for looking.
All I can think of now is how much he loved me. I felt it even when I didn’t want to and when I tell myself otherwise it is only because I am trying to ease my own pain. Anyone who knew him knew I was his world and isn’t that what I have been watching crumple all around me? The universes of my friends have disappeared and I shudder at the thought.
Why is it that we can only remember the good things when we lose something beautiful we never knew we had? Try as I might I to forget, I realize the qualities he contained that I deemed undesirable were nothing that couldn’t have been mended with a little communication. But it was merely that I wanted a reason to escape and so I harped on what made me unhappy until it was a constant grey cloud and it wasn’t long before he felt the rain.
I do hope he is happy. I won’t deny that I am jealous, that he has moved on and forgotten me and laughs while I cry. I am jealous that she gets to kiss his mouth and stroke the calloused skin of his palm and rest her cheek on his argyle sweater. I feel a deep anger when I think of her name caressed in the lilt of his Scottish brogue, the purr of each syllable like the ocean in the moonlight. I want to feel the curve of his body as our dreams meet dawn’s sunlight.
But those days are over and I face my future with a harrowed fear, sure the chopping block looms somewhere that I least expect it.
I won’t give up on love and I refuse to settle, but I must take to heart the lessons I have learned through all of this. I know that evil men lie in wait, their traps set for the innocent and trusting smile of a girl with bright eyes, and I curse them for their malicious intent.
They are all Devils, every one.

And yet this time, she thought woefully, this time the Devil was me.

In Lieu of the Death of MJ

Another dream...

The house was meager, typically musty, befitting the resident who spent most days in her white-washed rocker. Her graying hair reeked of cigarette smoke even though she had given up the habit years ago; old age clung to her fading flowered robe. Her sleek, grey tabby made his abode the comfort of her lap, gnarled hands stroking his shiny coat as he purred in contentment.
Oak shelves lined the four walls of her living room, the one collection item for the last fifty years displayed in pristine condition, chronologically positioned in perfectly straight rows. Michael Jackson, her one obsession.
I was her keeper, the one to watch over her in her old age, to ease the inevitable coming of death. The dolls unnerved me a bit, but they made her happy, so I dutifully cleaned them each day, polishing their plastic surgery-ravaged faces and dusting the records plastered on the otherwise bare walls. I shuddered as his black eyes bore into mine, the turned up tip of his nose inches from my face as I cared for my ward’s one love.
I never understood why she lived for the modern King of Rock, but I made good money and I wanted to ease her death as much as possible. I thought she was a sweet old lady. That fateful day came, however, when Michael Jackson was the target of death’s skeletal pointed finger, and the tenant of the rocking chair fell into the depths of despair.
Life held no more joy for her, and she begged me daily to end her life. I refused, horrified at the idea that someone could truly put their life’s worth into a stranger, and a psychotic one at that. I continued to protest her supplications, until one day I couldn’t stand staring into her listless eyes and so I relented, asking what it was she wanted from me.
I listened in revulsion as she detailed the best way to kill her, the way that would ensure she succumbed to the same fate as her idol. I was to take her favorite Michael doll, she said, the one with a porcelain face, and the big hammer from beneath the counter.
“Smash the head,” she said, her icy blue eyes wide above the hollow of her cheeks.
And so it was set. I waited until she went into her front yard, one that stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, visible to the rest of the neighborhood. I was nervous that I would get caught, certain that a passerby would see her in the throes of death and as her sole caretaker, I knew I would be the main suspect.
Hurriedly I gathered the necessary tools and waited until I saw the sun go behind the grey clouds and raising the hammer high, I brought it down upon the disfigured glass face of MJ.
It shattered into a hundred pieces and I heard a thud in the front yard. Tears were streaming down my face as I used Windex and paper towels to rid the hammer of my fingerprints and picked up the shards of broken porcelain from the shag carpet.
I heard a meow and through the front door I caught the lime stare of her grey feline, scarlet blood dripping from the corners of his mouth as I realized in disgust that he was drinking the lifeblood of his dead owner. I screamed at the tabby, running towards the yard, skidding to a stop as a black sedan pulled into the drive and a terror-crazed woman got out to help the old lady.
I ran outside, yelling at the woman to call 9-1-1. My yell was cut short as I watched the woman I had just brutally murdered get up from the ground and walk towards me. Her head was patched back together, bloody red lines zig-zagging across her face where the pieces of flesh had magically healed themselves.
I saw malice in her gaze and she smiled evilly as she said in a high-pitched tone, “Someone is going to jail!”
I realized she had filmed the entire thing with a hidden camera, and I knew my life was over.

And then I woke up.

Haunted

She had watched the lithe swagger of his body as he made his way through the crowd. He shouldn’t be able to move like that, she’d thought. Muscle and brawn shouldn’t have such grace. It was as if he contained some sort of magic, like he held an invisible scepter in his hand and commanded the world to fall at his feet. Time and again she watched in disbelief, heralding tangible proof that indeed, the world obeyed.
Not me, she silently vowed. I won’t give in.
She refused to feed the powerful jaws of such a man’s ego, for surely it meant imminent death of pride.
She secretly referred to him as a modern Henry VIII. Females flocked to him, making fools of themselves in an attempt to attract his attention. She knew of more than one woman who would kill for a mere glance of those turquoise eyes.
Please, not me.

But against her will his face returned to haunt her, and for seven hundred and seventy seven days the images had swirled in her dreams, the spicy and sweet and bitter morsels of fantasy. She considered the eight seasons that had come and gone, the two birthdays that had reared their monotonous heads, putting from her mind the infinitesimal amount of lips she was sure had brushed his since he had sauntered into her life.
She cursed herself for a moment as the sunlight cut through the dark shade of her sunglasses, as she watched his panther-like car idle on the curb. She cursed him, too. He knew what power he had over her, no matter that for eighteen thousand, six hundred and forty-eight hours she had wished he might find her attractive. Even now, while he sat grinning at her from the open window of his sleek ride, she wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about her.
“You lookin’ for a date?” he purred in her direction.
She grinned back in spite of herself. Damn his charm. Flipping shut her eight hundred page novel, she rose from bench where she had waited for him. She was annoyed with herself, knowing she had brought the book for his benefit, hoping that he realized her brain housed more than Brangelina fodder. Her inner self rolled her eyes in disgust. She knew the type of girl he liked. And why did she care what this man thought? He would never be more to her than a handsome flirt and she felt her heart squeeze in disappointment.
She opened the passenger door and slid a long, thin, shorts-clad leg in, again aware that she did so to elicit his admiration.
It worked.
She felt her blood rush as his gaze rested on the bare skin of her thigh, hoping – though she knew better – that he wouldn’t notice the quickening of her breath.
She had to make it through the night without losing her sanity.
Or her heart.

Their laughter sprinkled the night air and she ached at the bittersweet ease that wove its way around them; one little tug and she would unravel completely. She was struck with the truth that although he was cocky, underneath his confident façade lay an insecure little boy, one who constantly amazed her as each new layer was revealed, his mind more attractive than his beautiful face.
The proverbial line loomed on the horizon, one that they both wanted to cross, she knew. She felt it in the way his eyes brushed her face, and in the electricity that sparkled across her fair skin.
At midnight he walked her to her door and with a hesitation so brief she might have imagined it, he accepted her proposal and followed her inside.
He lay on the bed.
He offered her the place beside him.
She said she was afraid.
At that word his gaze softened, replaced by what she might have deemed regret if she hadn’t known better, hadn’t been aware that she was merely taking her place in a long line of females. So she pretended she didn’t see his eyes go dark and lowered herself into the crook of his heavily muscled arm.
When would she learn? The question hung in the air as his divine mouth found hers and she was swept into his Herculean grasp.
Oh god, his kiss. She danced in a storm of falling stars, purple night gripping the edges of her conscience, and she fought to keep from drowning in the fiery waters of desire. She had never tasted anything so sweet, except perhaps the kiss of another man so long ago, one who appeared sometimes in the crinkle of laughter around the eyes of the man whose lips she now devoured.
She felt the hum of irony against her skin as she sluggishly contemplated why she insisted on self-torture. Their case had been tried endlessly for two years. They could never be together, she knew that. “Opposites attract” had been the best argument of the defense, but the jury knew that adage would never hold up in the court of her heart.
For some people, beliefs in complete opposition were the icing on the cake, but not for her. Never for her. She was always left with a sticky mess, one she had cleaned up more times than she cared to remember and she wondered where this kiss would lead, wondered if she had the strength to tidy the ravaged heart he was sure to leave behind.
Why did he have to know how perfectly to touch her? Why did her body ignore what her brain commanded, to rip her mouth from his, to tear his hand from her breast? He murmured her name against her neck and she was flooded with the scent of him, blackberry sin and October starlight.
She knew this would change things.
This night wasn’t like the times she had kissed a mere stranger, one who made her body tingle but failed to reach the part of her that mattered. This time she had given pieces of her heart to the man who held her now, in amounts so small she’d hardly noticed and the realization dawned that he had more of it than she had ever intended.
And then his mouth left hers and he was talking, and she fought him as he raised her to the pedestal that so many men put her on. But he was stronger than she and so she went rigid, balancing precariously on the edge of her jewel-encrusted prison.
She listened to his words as they floated up to her perch, I’m not good enough. Don’t love me. You. Are. Perfect.
She didn’t have the strength to combat his misconceptions. Her body was still weak from the heat of his mouth, from the delicious bruise his fingers had left when he accidentally held her too hard, and the lazy gaze of his honey-lashed eyes.
And so she lay down on her golden throne and tried to forget, tried to ignore the melodic lilt of his voice as he said out loud what her heart already knew.
She wished he didn’t have the power to read her so well. He saw it. Her tragic flaw.
She ached to save those who only sought destruction.
But what about me? She silently wept. Sometimes even superheroes need a savior.

What Happens In Vegas

I've always wondered if the adage "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" ever rang true for any other cities. Cities of prevalent size, with a large amount of culture and history, and a respectable handful of denizens - like, say, Atlanta. Sure in a city so big late Saturdays spent dancing with a stranger at three am would freeze in time, only to be revisited in memory, right? However, I recently learned in a most ironic and hilariously humiliating way, that Atlanta is unfortunately NOT one of these cities.
It started off like any other birthday party, except this time I was dressed to kill and had landed on the VIP guest list, and we all strutted behind the birthday boy as he made his way through the nightclub. Much to my chagrin, Devil Boy - a purveyor of nightlife I had met on a former evening - had managed to skip on this occasion, leaving me with nary a straight dance partner. Well, there was one, but his sexuality was a puzzlement to all the partygoers, so I tried in vain to search for a boy who I was sure appreciated female assets.
2:30 am dawned and I was still high and dry, having been saved by Colin from a "Party Boy" by two beefy jocks. Ashley and I stood against the wall, trying desperately to avoid the slosh of liquid from precariously held cups, bemoaning ad nauseum that we had yet to get a good dance in. The night was coming to a close, after all.
Heaven must have heard my plea - later musings told me that perhaps the Devil's minions were involved instead - for out of the darkness HE came, straight over to...Ashley? Oh HELL no!
Broad shoulders, tapered waist, and a whif of - was that Abercrombie Fierce? - leaned nonchalantly against the wall next to my best friend, so I sidled up to her faster than Ali Baba could say open sesame. His back to me, I quickly ducked beneath his propped arm, and doing my best impersonation of Jessica Rabbit, I lifted heavily-decorated lashes to meet his gaze.
Nice.
He flashed a grin at me and I giggled, sounding like a dope and unfortunately noting that my idiocy couldn't be blamed on alcohol as I'd had none. Ashley and I stood against the edge of the DJ's stage as self-proclaimed "Cripp" introduced us to "Rip", his best friend forever. Rip declared they weren't lovers, further arguing his sexuality with Ashley that although he was a shoe designer, he was NOT gay. I took full advantage of the distraction, and like any good girlfriend would do, I stole Cripp all for myself.
Score.
Lady Gaga sang incoherently about her poker face while Tweedledeedum and Tweedledeedumber literally danced ON us, employing moves I’m certain can only be called “Dance Rape the Wallflowers.” I wanted Cripp closer, so I gripped the long, silky length of his…TIE, of course. Mind Gutter Patrol IS on duty, folks. I reeled him in and spent the next two songs trying to ignore the extra dance partner that had joined the space between the two of us.
He leaned in, whispering dark promises of special moves in private rooms and I gasped at him in horror. Well, mock horror at least. Heaven knows half of me was tempted to take him up on his offer, but that half knew she’d be bitch-slapped by the good twin later, so as the lights came on and the bouncers ushered us to the door, I reluctantly bade the Chippendale Twins goodnight.
Two nights later I decided to wash my soul clean again and attended Prime – ironically close in name to Primal, the nightclub – an organization of twenty-somethings who met for contemporary Christian worship and preaching. I took my seat next to Ashley in the same spot for the third week in a row, and settled in to sing along with the praise band.
The first note stuck with a squeal in my throat as I watched a pretty girl and handsome boy decked in Abercrombie make their way down the row of seats in front of us. The stopped directly in front of my chair, right in my line of vision so that there was no mistaking what I was praying fervently was a dream.
Cripp.
My fingernails dug red crescent moons in Ashley’s skin as I gripped her arm and pointed frantically. Her response of wide-eyed shock proved to me that I wasn’t – unfortunately – mistaken, and before common sense could intervene, fight or flight rushed through my blood and I reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Hey!” I yelled over the thrumming music.
He appeared completely flabbergasted at the audacity of a complete stranger invading his personal space, so I took advantage of his pause and asked, “Were you at Primal Saturday night?”
I could swear I literally saw beads of sweat form on his brow in a record two point one milliseconds.
“Uhh, yeah…why?” He glanced up sharply, searching my face, harrowed consternation in his eyes and I almost laughed as I watched his mind swim quickly through hazy memories.
“You totally danced with me!” I yelled into his ear, reminded again of the way a mere forty-eight hours before we had maneuvered in this very fashion, cheeks pressed together as I tried to avoid the kiss he was so ready to give. I failed to mention his titillating offer, certain he would remember it.
He looked nervously at the young blonde beside him, his girlfriend I supposed, and shook his dark head curtly. “I was there, but I don’t remember you. Maybe you’ve got the wrong guy.”
KSU student, business major, twenty-two years old. You drink Budlight and own a black and white striped skinny tie, Abercrombie being a favorite brand of yours. And what was that you said about a girlfriend? Oh, right, that you didn’t have one because you were too young for a relationship. Want me to tell Blondie for you? Better to break her heart now while it’s just getting started.
I said all of this mentally and to his back of course, as he had shut me out of further conversation when he turned to face the music. I should have told him the music was standing right behind him.
I contemplated burning holes in his beautifully shaped neck and cursed my lack of magical powers. Perhaps I still had a poison dart in my purse? But no, that was used on the last pilot who tried to accost me. Alas, I sat there unable to do anything except focus every channel of my mind on the words of the songs and not the ironic position of our bodies, his back to my front, except this time there was a plastic chair as a partition. Thank goodness.
I flippantly pondered the paradox of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, reflecting on my much-argued point with my mother, that just because a boy attends church, it does NOT mean he is worth dating.
I kept my eyes from meeting Ashley’s, for certain uncontrollable laughter was inevitable should I look at her. I glanced again at Blondie, skinny of course, and cute, and I wanted to hate her, but there was such an aura of innocence and trust in the way she slipped her fingers through his and rested her curly flaxen head on his shoulder that I ached to tell her the truth.
RUN, sweetheart, and never look back.
She dutifully took notes in her Bible while he barely even glanced at the passages on the screen and I wished again for heat vision. At this point, however, a machete would do the job I had in mind just as efficiently. I waited on pins and needles for the end of the service, anxious to see what awkward conversation would befall me.
I needn’t have worried. The speaker had barely uttered “amen” before Cripp snatched Blondie’s hand, and with his head buried conveniently in the colorful screen of his iPhone, he scurried past my bold stare and out of sight.
“I’ve seen them here before,” Ashley said as she watched them make a run for it. “Every week they sit in that spot. I know, because Cripp has a distinctive blonde streak in his hair and your friend Zach wants to date the cute girl.”
I suddenly realized she was right – I HAD seen them before.
“Should we chase them down and tell her?” the other half of my Dynamic Duo asked with shining eyes. They were eager with the anticipation of retribution.
I laughed. Who needs a machete when I’ve got Ashley?
I declared that unfortunately Blondie was sure to discover what a dud followed her to church on Monday nights, a dog salivating for just one thing, and I prayed that the potential damsel in distress wouldn’t settle for a frog in place of Prince Charming.
Ashley agreed and sighed with a chuckle.
“Such a calamity would only happen to you, Mere. Only you.”

But then again, what good is a Drama Queen without the jesters and ill-fated suitors of her ever-entertaining court?

Love in the Time of Pyramids

Another of my dreams...


I grew up with two boys from my small hometown, specifically Drake and Josh from the ridiculous Nickelodeon show. However, they were my best friends and not the stars of a sitcom, and summers passed in a blur with them. We had hundreds of adventures as kids, traveling to all parts of the globe with our vast imagination. I never had feelings past friendship for Josh, not as a child at least. It wasn't until years later, when they both returned home from college and we all sat on the beach by the blue ocean that I realized I was in love with him.
I wasn't sure if he felt the same and so we tiptoed around the subject, both unwilling to ruin what might otherwise stay a perfect friendship. He had changed so much from the husky boy he used to be. He was taller now, lean, with muscles flowing in places I daren't look for fear of giving myself away, that he might see the way my gaze lingered on the olive tone of his broad jawline or the ripe fullness of his beautiful mouth. I barely knew him anymore, and yet, I knew him better than I knew myself, and the irony of that did not escape me. We had been together since the days when pretenses were not to be bothered with, when one's word was as good as a written contract, and I wondered at the silent attraction that I was sure hovered between us, ached that we had lost the ability to telecommunicate.
The day came when I realized my grandmother was sick and I watched the agony on her face as she tried to get up from her chair, the twist of her hips too excruciating to bear. She lived in her wheelchair now, and the days of homemade chocolate chip cookies and sweet tea had come to a close. I sat with Drake and Josh in our old treehouse and they talked to me until the dam of tears broke and I cried a thousand tears for the pain in my grandmother's eyes. I never wanted her to be like that. She was too good to suffer such a fate.
Before I realized what was happening, Josh placed his hand on mine and the treehouse suddenly vanished, replaced by the whiz of rushing scenery. I knew somehow that he was taking me through our childhood memories, the ones he had stored with precious care in the deepest part of his mind, kept there for a day when he might need them most. I saw the past and the future, kings and courtesans, and test flew the first airplane with Wilbur and Orville. We swam with the dolphins and slept in a rainforest and sailed with Christopher Columbus to the Americas. Josh's hand felt perfect in mine and I never wanted the journey to stop. The flow of pictures slowed and stopped until we stood together in front of the great Sphinx, our bare feet in the warm sand of Egypt, the pyramids looming in the distance as the setting sun cast fire on the dust.
I knew this was it. He was going to make love to me here, all alone, just me and him and the ghosts of the ancient gods and I had never wanted anything more in my entire life. I loved him so much that I hardly had room to breathe and I almost wanted to make the feeling stop, so covered in peace that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He kissed me when the night shrouded us and then the sun rose the next morning as his sandy fingers traced circles on my bare hip.
I wanted to tell the world how happy I was, but when I was ushered back into reality, no one seemed to care that my world was now paradise. Mother and father merely shook his hand and I wondered why they pretended not to know the boy who spent summers on their backporch until I realized that he was Tyler Cole, a flight attendant and intensely attractive man, but not the love of my life. I tried not to panic, assuring myself that I would find Josh again and went about introducing Tyler in as normal a fashion as possible, as if my entire world hadn't been turned upside down. He loved me, I knew, and I felt guilty that I only half-heartedly returned his affections. His arms felt wrong somehow, too strong. When his adept fingers kneaded the knots in my shoulders, I tried to ignore the pulsing in my blood, sure that my attraction was merely displaced because I couldn't find Josh.
Jessica LaRegina sat at the kitchen table when she met Tyler, scowling her disapproval as continued to sketch Marie Antoinette's slippers on sheets of white paper.

Suddenly Josh and Tyler and Jessica disappeared and I lived in New York City. I took the subway to work every morning where I worked as a writer for a magazine. As I meandered through the near-empty station, I began humming a tune that seemed to come from inside me, a song I didn't actually know but made up as I went along. There were no words, but the pristine tone of my voice echoed off the walls and I suddenly turned to see a group of people following in my footsteps, humming a back up harmony for the original melody that was escaping my lips of its own accord.
I smiled at the scene, somehow aware that I was dreaming because a morning like this was impossible. When I came out of the subway, there was a man waiting for me, a middle-aged black man dressed in a fedora and a theadbare suit, all varying shades of brown.
"You're good, you know," he said to me.
I was surprised, not sure what he was talking about.
"Back there in the subway. I heard you singing. I'm the owner of Phelini's and I'm directing a musical, an off-Broadway production, and I want you to try out. I haven't heard a voice as clear as yours in a very, very long time . Come see me - my store is at the corner of 9th and Broadway."
I was shocked and unsure I was actually awake as I thanked him and hurried to find Christina. She waited for me at our usual bench, the one where we caught the last bus into work. I tried to tell her about it, still confused as to how it had actually happened, and I asked what Phelini's was.
"Oh my goodness, only the biggest music store in NYC!! You're so lucky - don't test fate. You MUST try out!!"
Then Mr. Phelini was in front of us as he handed us each a red business card, and I remembered worrying that he was going to get hit by the purple bus if he didn't get out of the street.
He heard me gush to Christina about our future as Tony-winning Broadway stars, and the last thing I heard was the linger of his jovial laughter as he got behind the wheel of our bus and began to drive away.
I wondered if he had tricked us.

And then I woke up.