Nothing nuttier than losing an entry halfway through. I'm just gonna pretend I didnalt and start where I left off.
Sometimes he'd come as Sam and want to see how crude he could get. But sometimes, he'd be nameless, and just want a massage. He would talk to her then. She was surprized to learn his wifes name was one he had called out before. He talked of his wife freely when he was like this. He came and went off and on over the next year or two when suddenly he was coming more frequently, with an almost urgency-at least he'd start that way. But more and more he'd go from intense and angry, to a sullen state. Sometimes she wondered if he remembered she was there, he grew so quiet. She liked him-liked how he would charm her into free services, liked how despite his taste in roles, he wanted to be liked. Wanted desperately to adopt the character that HE would like. All his characters would fail though, and he'd leave more despondent than ever. She didn't like feeling like a failure. It injured her pride to see him leave miserable. But it was also s painful mirror he was holding up to her. She was good at covering it up-she had to be- but it was hard to stay in character when he broke role like that. Finally, she said what was painfully obvious. He couldn't keep running to her. Whatever he was running from had caught up and was coming with him. He needed to find what it was that would make him happy, and it wasn't here. that was the last time he saw her before now, here in this hallway.
After she finally escaped the conversation in the hallway, she couldn't help watch him and his wife on the dance floor. Was this another act? He played the part of debonair very well. Of course that would be a good role for this audience. His wife was beautiful. He had said as much. She had a flush to her cheeks. Was it the exersize? Probably, but she noticed her stealing a glance or two in her direction, so maybe it was more than that after all.
But now that she knew her face, the burden of small towns set in. The face showed up everywhere. She brought her two babies to a Mom and tot group
Cont later-gotta put kids to bed. Still grumpy from losing first half. May rewrite it tomorrow
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
The meeting
Remfiction This is a story that's been floating around my head after something my brother wrote.
She's here again. I seem particularly tuned to her presence, because I look up even before the door opens. The toddler comes racing in first, followed by the baby carrier. Then she comes in and her eyes span the room and drop nervously when they meet mine. Like I knew they would...
We might speak, we might not. The playroom was crowded with other moms and demanding children, and even with my attempt to orchestrate a conversation for the past year, I hadn't got past "cute jacket" and I doubted today would be any different. She feared me. She feared what I might say if she let me start, and who could blame her? There was so much I wanted to say, and while I didn't want her to be scared of me, I knew things, and she knew it. I knew she knew who I was, and therefore knew who she had been- before the wedding ring on her finger and the two beautiful children that ran joyfully into her arms, and called her mama. When she looked at me, she looked haunted. But less so now than before. After a year of warm smiles, I was starting to get polite smiles back. I could stop feeling like a ghost.
I first learned about her 5 years ago. My marriage of 3 years was growing distant and quarrellous and I didn't know why. I loved my husband, and prodded him for an explanation. He would look harassed, then defensive, then apologize profusely. I would shrug my shoulders and suggest maybe he should go out for a while. He always felt better after one of his drives. But not for as long as he used to. In fact, he was miserable most of the time, and I was clueless at how to help. And even had I any clue, my husband made sure I was powerless by his total distance and isolation. Yethe was kind to me and treated me well, and so I was pacified until the morning I found him unconscious. He wouldn't wake up. I cringe when I think how long I left him, thinking he needed the rest. When I saw he wouldn't, couldn't wake, I called the ambulance. He was revived at the hospital. When they told me they had pumped his stomach, I was floored! I was left for hours to ponder why he would have attempted to poison himself, but the actual answer never crossed my mind. He confessed he had for the past two years on and off, been a patron of prostitutes in a house in the city. My reaction was typical, and no longer relevant, suffice to say that there had been many other women, but he'd been a regular to one in particular. That one was the one whom he had been able to talk to. It had been her who two months prior had told him he should stop coming. She recognized his misery and wasn't interested in feeling guilty for it. He vowed to quit, and never return to any of them. Two months into his goal, he felt that the only way to keep his word was to stop living. He told me all of this at his hospital bedside.
And then suddenly there she was, in our town. He pointed her out to me at a community dance. He had said she wasn't as pretty as me. I'd been angry that he'd say that to me, like I would care. Like it would matter at all! But when I saw her, I saw it was true, and I was embarrassed that it DID matter. Her hair was long and stringy, and looked like it would never hold a coif. Her dress was tastefully revealing, but ill-fitted and contrived to not be flattering at all. Her features were striking, but cold-possibly by Russian decent, possibly by a life of rougher choices than I'd ever had to make. I didn't need to worry that she had seen me. When my husband and I were on the dance floor, we had all eyes on us. Oddly, I was embarrassed about that. It was childish to want her to know I didn't lose my husband to her because of my looks. I owed her for getting him back. It did matter that I was prettier, but just the once-just for a moment. I wonder if I would have felt so indebted had SHE been the prettier one?...
But that wasn't what filled my thoughts when I saw her. I had a speech in my head that I had practised a million times. I would try and tell her sorry for what had happened to her without insulting her with my own lack of understanding for her life. I would try and thank her for being there when my husband really needed a friend, without condoning where he found one. I would try and say I forgive you without implying that she needed to apologize. No wonder I never got past "cute jacket"... The only message I was able to convey was in my own silence. By it, I said "I will keep your secret. I will let you change your life. I will not haunt you. There is no malice in me. You can trust me. I am your friend."
She's here again. I seem particularly tuned to her presence, because I look up even before the door opens. The toddler comes racing in first, followed by the baby carrier. Then she comes in and her eyes span the room and drop nervously when they meet mine. Like I knew they would...
We might speak, we might not. The playroom was crowded with other moms and demanding children, and even with my attempt to orchestrate a conversation for the past year, I hadn't got past "cute jacket" and I doubted today would be any different. She feared me. She feared what I might say if she let me start, and who could blame her? There was so much I wanted to say, and while I didn't want her to be scared of me, I knew things, and she knew it. I knew she knew who I was, and therefore knew who she had been- before the wedding ring on her finger and the two beautiful children that ran joyfully into her arms, and called her mama. When she looked at me, she looked haunted. But less so now than before. After a year of warm smiles, I was starting to get polite smiles back. I could stop feeling like a ghost.
I first learned about her 5 years ago. My marriage of 3 years was growing distant and quarrellous and I didn't know why. I loved my husband, and prodded him for an explanation. He would look harassed, then defensive, then apologize profusely. I would shrug my shoulders and suggest maybe he should go out for a while. He always felt better after one of his drives. But not for as long as he used to. In fact, he was miserable most of the time, and I was clueless at how to help. And even had I any clue, my husband made sure I was powerless by his total distance and isolation. Yethe was kind to me and treated me well, and so I was pacified until the morning I found him unconscious. He wouldn't wake up. I cringe when I think how long I left him, thinking he needed the rest. When I saw he wouldn't, couldn't wake, I called the ambulance. He was revived at the hospital. When they told me they had pumped his stomach, I was floored! I was left for hours to ponder why he would have attempted to poison himself, but the actual answer never crossed my mind. He confessed he had for the past two years on and off, been a patron of prostitutes in a house in the city. My reaction was typical, and no longer relevant, suffice to say that there had been many other women, but he'd been a regular to one in particular. That one was the one whom he had been able to talk to. It had been her who two months prior had told him he should stop coming. She recognized his misery and wasn't interested in feeling guilty for it. He vowed to quit, and never return to any of them. Two months into his goal, he felt that the only way to keep his word was to stop living. He told me all of this at his hospital bedside.
And then suddenly there she was, in our town. He pointed her out to me at a community dance. He had said she wasn't as pretty as me. I'd been angry that he'd say that to me, like I would care. Like it would matter at all! But when I saw her, I saw it was true, and I was embarrassed that it DID matter. Her hair was long and stringy, and looked like it would never hold a coif. Her dress was tastefully revealing, but ill-fitted and contrived to not be flattering at all. Her features were striking, but cold-possibly by Russian decent, possibly by a life of rougher choices than I'd ever had to make. I didn't need to worry that she had seen me. When my husband and I were on the dance floor, we had all eyes on us. Oddly, I was embarrassed about that. It was childish to want her to know I didn't lose my husband to her because of my looks. I owed her for getting him back. It did matter that I was prettier, but just the once-just for a moment. I wonder if I would have felt so indebted had SHE been the prettier one?...
But that wasn't what filled my thoughts when I saw her. I had a speech in my head that I had practised a million times. I would try and tell her sorry for what had happened to her without insulting her with my own lack of understanding for her life. I would try and thank her for being there when my husband really needed a friend, without condoning where he found one. I would try and say I forgive you without implying that she needed to apologize. No wonder I never got past "cute jacket"... The only message I was able to convey was in my own silence. By it, I said "I will keep your secret. I will let you change your life. I will not haunt you. There is no malice in me. You can trust me. I am your friend."
Monday, November 15, 2010
What is Sexy?
I was once asked what sexy was. It was in a writing class and most of the women in the class wrote that wrinkled old women are sexy. At the time I declined to respond (not being a wrinkled old woman, I thougt I should just sit it out) but I've thought about it a good deal and I keep coming back to this memory...
I was out on a triple date with my then boyfriend of a few weeks. It was the Thanksgiving weekend and he was introducing me to his highschool friends who were home from university for the weekend. We were planning a simple evening-dinner and a movie, and I was distracted by the challenge of trying to make friends with these sophisticated college girls. We went to a movie that promised to be funny, and I can barely remember it. I was feeling nervous and out of place and wasn't paying much attention, until I saw my date grow uncomfortable. I looked up at the screen and saw that the humour had grown ribald. ithe scene progressed to the bedroom, and suddenly the most remarkable thing happened. My boyfriend caught the eye of the other two young men and they gave him a decided nod. Then all three of them stood up and took their dates by the hand and led us out of the theatre. Not a word was spoken of why or even so much as mentioned. They just proceeded to move on to another form of entertainment for their young lady friends. At the time, I felt a little self contious that Ihadn't been the one to suggest it, feeling that that was something of a chastisement against my viewing habits (guilty conscience I guess) but now I simply marvel that such 18 year olds exist. This struck me as marvellous on two accounts. The fact that my virtue was valuable, something to be protected and treasured, and that their own virtue was valuable too is about the sexiest thing imagineable, but the fact that they had that support from their bros... That they knew they could stand together and be stronger, that they need never be ashamed at doing the right thing in front of each other, that each ones company makes the other boy a better person. That is so hot! Its hands down the sexiest thing I've ever seen.
I was out on a triple date with my then boyfriend of a few weeks. It was the Thanksgiving weekend and he was introducing me to his highschool friends who were home from university for the weekend. We were planning a simple evening-dinner and a movie, and I was distracted by the challenge of trying to make friends with these sophisticated college girls. We went to a movie that promised to be funny, and I can barely remember it. I was feeling nervous and out of place and wasn't paying much attention, until I saw my date grow uncomfortable. I looked up at the screen and saw that the humour had grown ribald. ithe scene progressed to the bedroom, and suddenly the most remarkable thing happened. My boyfriend caught the eye of the other two young men and they gave him a decided nod. Then all three of them stood up and took their dates by the hand and led us out of the theatre. Not a word was spoken of why or even so much as mentioned. They just proceeded to move on to another form of entertainment for their young lady friends. At the time, I felt a little self contious that Ihadn't been the one to suggest it, feeling that that was something of a chastisement against my viewing habits (guilty conscience I guess) but now I simply marvel that such 18 year olds exist. This struck me as marvellous on two accounts. The fact that my virtue was valuable, something to be protected and treasured, and that their own virtue was valuable too is about the sexiest thing imagineable, but the fact that they had that support from their bros... That they knew they could stand together and be stronger, that they need never be ashamed at doing the right thing in front of each other, that each ones company makes the other boy a better person. That is so hot! Its hands down the sexiest thing I've ever seen.
Rex Elliot
Rex Elliot is the coolest person ever. He knows how to use a computer, he call his grandma on her birthday and when he dreams, he can just will his body up into the air and float to the ceiling. Or with the rigt wind conditions, he can even fly. He always says the right thing too. He never loses his cool, and when he's hurt someones feelings, he's the first to guess the real reason why. If Rex Elliot were an ice cream flavour, he'd be Tiger. If he was an animal he'd be a meercat. If he were a cereal, he'd be fruity pebbles. If he were an instrument, he'd be a black electric guitar with red flames. Rex Elliot is the coolest person ever.
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