AGAINST THE WORLD
We’re in the car. We’ve spent the day together. It’s getting into the evening. We don’t have any plans, we haven’t all day. It was a “spend the day together” date. We did lunch together, that was a rush. Seeing each other for the first time in a while, there was a lot of excited energy. That carried us over to the theatre, a mutual friend’s one-man show. Thank God it was a matinee, the show went quick and we were able to get out of there in a hurry without having to talk to him for that long. We laughed about how bad it was on the way to the mall. I drove.
We’ve already been on a few dates. This is number five, I think. We’ve done all the usual date stuff. The movies, the bar/restaurant, the nice restaurant, the “live music at a small, little spot.” I’ve even met some of her friends (she hasn’t met any of mine—I’m not stupid). Now we get to find out where’s it going to go.
I wanted to go to the mall. It’s an open space. I like this girl. I do. And I want to see if it’s legit. If she’s legit. You can’t really do that when you eat. Something about sitting down with food makes the date formal. Then you’re not you, you’re you’s you, you know, that version of you that you pretend to be when you’re on a date. The movies? Nope. Can’t learn about someone when you’re sitting in the dark, not talking to each other. The bar? Please. That’s the last place you go to find out, well, the last place after the club. So I take her to the mall. Couple hours walking together in the daytime? I’ll find out.
We had a good time at the mall. Yeah, I spent some of my money on her, but not that much, and only one or two things. It was about seeing where her head’s at.
“What do you think about that?” I asked, some thing somebody we know did.
She shook her head no firmly. “That’s girl stuff right there. I’m a grown woman.”
Couldn’t hide my smile. We passed an ice cream spot and I bought her a cone.
But now we’re in the car, and she’s different. Farther away than the passenger seat she’s sitting in. I drove us to this little spot I found, friend of a friend hipped me to it. Top floor of this parking garage, overlooking the bridge a few blocks over. It’s sunset, so it looks like it’s falling into the water. I got this jazz something playing in the background, just over the quiet. But she’s not here. I don’t know where she is. I don’t know why.
I think about where we are, where we’ve been, what we’ve done. I realize the longer I’m around her, the more I think about her. I’m looking at her shoes when I get it.
She hasn’t made up her mind yet.
I point at her shoe. “Let me see that.”
She’s confused, but she lifts her foot. I take off her shoe and start giving her a massage.
I’ve already made up my mind.
BLUE SCREEN
The light from the television glows, illuminating the dark room, illuminating the room in dark light.
Monica lays atop the bed, beneath its sheets.
It was not without human touch, the night. The proof lay asleep next to her. She tried to let this comfort her, but the race had ended, the race was over, and now could not let herself be held.
Rest could come, but the mind does not allow. The peace of the dark helps, but that light from the television, that glow that sticks to the walls, it forces, all but entices, sweetly demands, soothingly requests, sirens one to reflect. Monica lets out a breath into the quiet night. She lets the glow take her.
Her mind wrapped around the feeling, the turning, the rapture. She recalled the grasp it held her in, the tight hold it had on her, on all of her, and wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let go, surrounding her, surrounding her so that her mind and body had no choice but to be joyously swallowed by it. To let it consume her. A willing embrace gloriously taken.
It was when she found herself within this ocean that she discovered her power, her power to control it. To torment it, to temper it, to command it. She was no longer swimming within this ocean, beneath its surface, she was flying through this cosmic space, its very fabric flowing through her.
She would take this power to him. She would fly into him the way he her, and feel it reborn. Over and over until the night turned.
“John.” She said softly.
The sheets rustle next to her.
“What did you say?” He asks.
“Nothing Derrick, go back to sleep.”
The sheets rustle back the way they came.
Monica lets out a breath into the quiet night.
The dark room glows from the light of the television.
OBENEWA
“I’ll tell you the exact moment,” she tells me, pretending the anger in her voice is coming from the scalding hot tea she’s sipping. “I’ll tell you the exact moment I knew it wasn’t going to work. We were watching television. He was rubbing his index finger with his thumb.”
I wait for more. There’s none coming. That was the moment.
“She was handsy, you know, touchy. One of those kinds of people, always touching things.”
That wasn’t exactly true, but I knew what she meant. Nina thought of human contact as a beautiful art, she approached it as a form of expression unto itself. It’s not that she was “always touching things.” It’s that when she touched something, it meant something. When she touched you—it meant something. And when she touched Corey, it meant everything.
Laney got stuck trying to pick up those pieces. It didn’t help that she was a “boundaries person.” But even if she wasn’t, would it have mattered? There was no way she was going to compete with Nina.
“We had been through all that, you know. Forgetting his past, putting me in his future. We took time—time.”
She says it with that exasperated breath—time—like it took such a toll on her, such a piece of her. And it did. We all saw it. And it wasn’t even his fault. We all knew that too.
“So here we are, after working through all that, finally to the point where I don’t suspect he’s thinking about her, and what is he doing? He’s rubbing his index finger with his thumb.”
I still don’t understand what that means.
She sighs and looks away. It’s not that she doesn’t want to tell me. She doesn’t want to say it.
“He told me once that one of the things she used to do is massage his fingers. Not like ‘sit down, put your hand here,’ masseuse thing. But like, if they were sitting together, watching television, she’d lightly rub his fingers.”
She tries to sigh, but the tea makes it sound like a hiss.
I try not to nod. I try not to look away. All that work, all those years—how did she put it?—all that time, and it didn’t matter. She was still inside of him. Nothing Laney could do about it.
“So that’s when it was over.” I say.
“Oh, it’s not over,” Laney said matter-of-factly. “It’ll never be over. That’s just when it ended.”
I hadn’t realized.
She takes another sip, the burning tea preventing her from crying.
S.I.L.
“He wasn’t that tall back then. No, he was just a short little guy. Truthfully, I don’t know where he picked up the height. But what he didn’t have in height, he made up for it in, I wouldn’t say intensity, but a determined sensibility. Something would happen, and he’d get this look in his eye. I remember once, this happened years later, he heard two Latina women crying. They were talking about something very important, and they were crying about it. Kenny didn’t know what they were saying, he didn’t speak Spanish. But that didn’t stop him for long. He started studying that night and now he speaks, what is it, four, five languages? Something just clicks in ol’ Kenny’s mind and the deed’s as good as done, no matter how impossible. And believe you me, nothing was more impossible than Sasha. What did we used to call her? Sashalito! She was one hot tamale, always mad about something. And didn’t forget nothing! She tattooed grudges, forget holding them! And she was maaaaaad at ol’ Kenny, hell if I remember why. Well, I do remember why, but we
won’t go into that. They had been a thing for a little bit of time, not for all that long, when she broke it off. And they had been broken up for, what was it, four years? Something close to that. So here we are, four years later. We’re at the train station, going to a ball game. I’m in line for our train tickets, he’s in some trance, staring out the window at the parking lot. ‘You alright Kenny?’ He turns and asks me, ‘What time is it?’
‘About 6 o’clock Kenny.’
‘She’d be home by the time we got there.’
‘Who would, Kenny?’ The lady calls us over. Ol’ Kenny almost knocks me over to get to the ticket booth. ‘When’s the next train for Violens?’
‘Violens? Kenny, Violens is the wrong way.’ She says, ‘Violens Gardens? The train pulling out now is headed to Violens Gardens.’ Ol’ Kenny makes a mad dash for that train. Me? Well, I ain’t got much of a choice, do I? You can’t just let your friend go to Violens Gardens by himself. Even though this train is already moving, damn if Kenny doesn’t catch hold of it and get on, with me jumping on a second behind him. I’m panting and heaving, so sick from running I’m gonna throw up, but all I can do is yell at ol’ Kenny. ‘What the hell you got me running to catch some damn train going to Violens for?’ Ol’ Kenny just looks up at me and says, ‘I’m gonna get her back.’
‘WHO?’
‘Sasha.’
‘Sasha?’ I didn’t even remember her, that’s how long it had been. ‘Sasha,’ he says. I’m about to scream at him again, when I see that look in his eyes. Ain’t no point in yelling at him after that. So we sit down and head to Violens Gardens to see Sashalito. Messed up part? Gonzalez threw a no-hitter that night.”
STOLEN FROM A PARTY I ATTENDED
This would have been after a show, I don’t remember which one. There were a lot of post-show parties. I do know two of my ex-girlfriends were there. They weren’t my exes at the time, I had only dated one of them at that point. Incidentally, the one I had dated had broken up with me—making me her ex—without telling me—making her not my ex. Which I guess means it was 1995.
The cool thing about post-show parties was the eclectic party members. Age range, political leanings, general interests—just all over the place. The only thing the party members had in common was the show we just finished. But it meant that the conversation could be genuinely engaging. I remember that being the case.
“How do you do it?”
“Oh, come on.”
“Serious!”
Most of the cast were twenty-somethings, swearing the world to be theirs. The rest were fifty-somethings who knew better. Two of those fifty-somethings were married, and had been for thirty-plus years. None of us had been in a relationship that lasted more than a couple years, even the older actors. After a few drinks and some hearty laughs, it’s all anyone wanted to know.
“How do you do it?” We asked Rita.
“Well, it takes two, so you should ask Byron.”
The only thing Byron ever said were his lines.
“Come on Rita.”
After some more pleading, she relented.
“Fine, fine, fine. I’ll tell you what I know.”
Everyone in the room became hers.
“First of all, you have to have love. The both of you have to love and be in love with each other. It doesn’t have to be same amount, but it helps. You gotta have a switch that knows when you’re being wrong and another switch that knows when the other person needs to be right. You’ve got to listen, give space and take space. You don’t want to hover over it, or you’ll suffocate it. Something drastically unfair will happen and the two of you will have to live with it. Find foods that you both like. Figure out what things the other person doesn’t like about you—and stop doing about half of them. Only half though, you don’t want to start changing. Never go to bed angry. If you have to stay up all night and talk it out, then do it. Make sure you make the other person laugh. Drive the other person crazy, but not too crazy. And without a doubt, the most important thing…”
The whole room leaned forward.
“Make sure you play with his balls.”
This got a nod from Byron.
GOING TO SEE ORSON
The painting in the living room was of a chateau. It wasn’t the prettiest of paintings, but it’s the first one they bought together. Beneath it was a long dresser one of the kids bought for them. Inside the dresser were coasters, napkins, batteries, photo albums, and his secret stash of chocolate. The top of the dresser was tastefully decorated, the centerpiece candlesticks from their wedding. In the past fifty years, the candlesticks had gone from a beaming silver to a deep, proud gray. They looked at it often.
The dining room was mostly for show, fancy dinners or special occasions. The dishware was expensive, the room was full of ornate glass sculptures. It was very lovely, she dusted every week, but neither of them liked eating in there, opting instead for the small table in their warm kitchen.
The kitchen was small, to their tastes. Along with the usual assortment of supplies, the kitchen held their collection of antique miniature elephants; the result of a lifetime of Saturdays spent at flea markets. In the early evening, sunlight would make the tiny elephants shine, basking the room in a golden-brown glow.
The hallways were covered in framed photographs. Every spring they would re-arrange them, spending that following year passing newly-remembered memories.
But where did they spend most of their time? On the patio, overlooking the water. Made of sturdy, longboard lumber, he had the patio built to his custom specifications. He soaked the wood in the dark burgundy color she liked, weather-sealed it for twice the recommended time, and stayed vigilant for splinters and loose nails for the better part of fifty years. The two-person bench was built into the patio—as one single piece. The same wood and color, he bought matching cushions and built pockets and cup-holders in the sides. He used his old pocket knife to scratch their names within a heart on the left armrest—because she always preferred to sit on his left.
From there they would sit and watch the water. The years gone, the life led, they would sit together and watch the sunset. Sometimes the sunrise too.
RACHEL HARVEST
Rachel Harvest is everywoman: Registered Dietitian, Wellness Coach, Pilates Instructor, Blog Author and Personality. She is the founder of Private Wellness Guru as well as the creator of Project: Love Me.
HELLO MY LOVE
Hello my love.
I just had to tell you this and you’re in there still sleeping and I have to get moving for the day…
You look quite different than I had expected.
I’m a bit concerned that you appeared the way you did. I had pictured this all to be a bit more glamorous than me being caught in my glasses and bed head at the bodega down the street…and you with Oreos and chocolate milk in hand.
It’s clear we will have continued work to do on my public persona and your diet regime.
Thanks for reminding me to smile.
I am quite pleased that you aren’t so serious as I about, well, everything.
Thanks for learning to sleep on your back, too. It’d be really tough to listen to your heart beat from the spoon and I’ve found that this is how I sleep best.
It’s surprising. I sleep better than I’ve ever slept before. Maybe that happens with age…or maybe that’s just because you’re there.
You…and all of this…it’s somehow safe.
Thanks for making me a liar. I didn’t think this was possible, especially from a starry eyed encounter at a Brooklyn minimart.
I was thinking it wasn’t ok for me to be me.
Lies.
Or maybe I was ready to be ok to be me…with you.
Thanks for listening when I say whatever it is I say, always with at least three too many bullet points to cover, exhaustively.
I have a lot of words
and a lot of love
and a lot that I’m afraid of.
Thank you for being rea
l. I don’t mean honest or forthright. I mean for being more than a dream, for being there when I needed you to be and letting me be there for you.
Your love is precious.
Your love is true.
Your love is hilarious.
Your love lets my love be alive. Thank you for it all.
Oh, and, don’t forget to take your leftovers for lunch.
Love, me
TO MYSELF (YOURSELF)
To myself (yourself), Little fairy,
I’m (you’re) writing you (me), a love letter today. I’m (You’re) writing to you (me) because, I forget to tell you (me) most days that, I’m absolutely in love with you (me).
I love that you (I) are (am) small and mighty, a presence that always closes the circle.
You (I) are (am) welcome and loved everywhere you (I) go.
You (I) radiate.
You (I) sing.
You (I) cry tears that show it’s well and good to share and what kind of power there is in being vulnerable.
It doesn’t matter if that’s not what everyone can do. You (I) can and you (I) do.
You (I) breathe.
You (I) move gently.
You (I) float into a smile.
You (I) let your (my) heart be open and you (I) heal yourself (myself).
You (I) listen for the music and when you (I) get far away, you (I) listen harder to find your (my) way back.
You (I) sit where you (I) are (am) as best you (I) can and go to walk if you (I) need to…alone.
One Page Love Story- Share the Love Page 11