Unloved at First Sight

I remember the precise moment I stopped loving him.
We had gone out to dinner.
I was just getting back from the lady's room.
He looked up at me and smiled.
His eyes, I noticed, were dead and lifeless.
Not even a dull glimmer of light remained. 
I blinked
thinking eyes would appear in the two gaping holes in his face.
They only grew deeper.
He looked at me quizzically.
Perhaps something in my expression had given me away.
I sat down beside him
avoiding looking at what had once been a pair of chlorine blue eyes.
It was as if something had changed in the time it took me to use the restroom. 
When I left everything was normal.
But when I came back he was no longer the man I loved. 
I denied it for a while,
dismissing it as a feeling that would pass just like indigestion. 
But it never did.
It only worsened.
An unexplainable bitterness began to build up inside me.
Today I looked through some old photos of us
and realized that I'd imagined those chlorine blue eyes of his
because he'd never had eyes of his own to begin with.
Funny howI was the one with the eyes and I was blind the whole time.
Maybe I should pluck my eyes out.

Muse

October 3, 2012 10:49pm

                                                                              

It’s a sensual process.

Watching him paint.

But today I’m his subject, and there’s no talking. He likes it completely silent when he works. He talks about his paints like they’re a person, his brushes – a fine wine, and his canvas – a beautiful lady. He’s the kind of person that has a mind so complex that after a five minute conversation with him you’d just assume he’s dumb, or extremely high.

He says he can taste color. Sometimes I think I’m dating an eight year old. Then my eyes roll over his body, and I remember why I put up with it. When my eyes get to his waist he makes a hand gesture, signaling me to look at him. He wanted this painting to be profile. He’s very persistent about keeping eye contact. He says that the muse is as much the artist as the painter. They’re both part of the process. I open my mouth to say something, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I scowl at him from behind wisps of my unruly curls. He smiles. He loves when I pout.

I’m wearing nothing but an oversized, tacky Bill Cosby sweater and a pair of his grey boxer-briefs. I’m sticky. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. He’s been at it for an hour now. I’m uncomfortable, cranky, and tired. He says It’s sexy. He says I look better when I’m all grungy.

The cat curls up in my lap. He looks up from his canvas and frowns. He walks over to where I am on the couch and shoos the cat away. He walks back over to his canvas. It’s so large, he can nearly hide behind it. That’s saying quite a bit considering his large frame that stands as a whopping six feet and two inches.

Sometimes I think he enjoys painting more than he enjoys physical intimacy with me. When I see the way he looks at them – the paint, the brushes, the canvas – the way he speaks to them – the way he touches them. I envy them. What I wouldn’t give for him to caress me so gently. To whisper so sweetly. To love me so tenderly. My heart aches.

His fingers are on the canvas. He’s smearing the paint. He pushes his hair back from his brow and gets some blue across his forehead. There’s yellow on the bridge of his nose, and green on his left cheek. If I could taste color, I’m sure he’d taste divine.

He finally drops his brush against the easel, steps away, and smiles – admiring his work.  I stand and he waves me over. I look at it. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous even. But it’s not me. The girl in the picture is radiant. She’s flawless. She’s happy. She’s what he wished he saw when he looked at me.

We’re all just somebody’s muse I guess.

I wish I were the one behind the canvas, instead of the one on it. 

Laundry Mat

                 He looked out of place in a coin laundry mat. I can always tell when it's a person's first time. Call it a sixth sense. He set his basket down on top of a folding table and rubbed his chin, eyes searching...I know that look. Every newby gets that look. We meet eyes and his face brightens. Then he's striding towards me, eyes darting here and there. I'm shoving wet clothes into a dryer when he approaches me. I brush back my bangs and look up at my visitor.

                "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, it's just - well I'm new to this whole thing."

                "I guessed as much. You don't really look like the typical coin laundryer."

                He laughs at this, pushing his hair back out of his face. "I forgot my soap."

                I grab my bottle and hand it to him. "Use mine."

                He accepts it with his left hand and reaches out his right. I think he wants to shake my hand. I place my right hand in his and he pumps our clasped hands up and down for a moment before retracting. His head tilts to the side. "You're a lefty aren't you?" I can feel my eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

                "How'd you know?"

                He shrugs, "I took a class on body language. I kinda guessed when I was watching you load your laundry, and confirmed it with that handshake."

                "Hmm, very observant of you."

                "I used to be a lefty. Trained myself to be a righty though. Just more convenient."

                "Lefties have more fun."

                "Is that so?"

                "It is."

                "I'll have to test that theory some time. Thanks for the soap," and then he sauntered back over to attend to his laundry.

                I felt anxious. I'd say half an hour had passed. He was reading the paper. I didn't think anyone read the paper anymore. Other than stock brokers...and he was far too attractive to be a stock broker. Maybe he was the intellectual type. He looks up to turn pages and I forget to avert my eyes. He smiles and waves. I give a half grin. He goes back to reading. I go back to reading him. So far I had gathered the following: he was tall - probably 6, 1", perfectly groomed teeth, coffee drinker (I could smell it on his breath), and a hunch told me he had a tattoo. I racked my brain, trying to think of a reason to go up and talk to him without seeming creepy. Nothing comes to mind. Just then I hear the crinkling of paper. I look up to see him folding up the newspaper and placing it in the seat beside him, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head.

                I grab a pack of gum from my purse and shove a stick in my mouth. I think chewing will take away my anxiousness, but I quickly realize it doesn't. He stands, stretches, and rubs his hair. Then he walks over to the vending machine; leaning his tall frame against it. I watch intently. B7. Twizlers. Pulling open the wrapper, he rips one off and takes a bite. I reach for another stick of gum. When I look back at him, he's looking straight at me. I sit still. Unsure what to do. he grins again. Why does he keep doing that!? He stands up again, finishing his Twizler and grabbing another, and my bottle of laundry soap.

                "I believe this belongs to you," he says once he's made his way across the laundry mat, to the corner I've tried to tuck myself away in.

                I stand and take it, placing it beside my empty laundry baskets.  "Thanks."

                He nods and takes another bite of his Twizler. "Do you like Twizlers?" he asks, pointing it towards me.

                "Yeah, it's my favorite candy actually."

                "Is it now?" he says, eyebrows raised.

                "Yep."

                "In that case..." he places his hand, palm-side up, in front of my mouth.

                "You want me to spit my gum out?"

                He just nods. My mouth involuntarily forfeits my minty gum. He then places the Twizler to my mouth. I take a bite. There's that grin again. He pops my gum in his mouth, hands me the rest of the Twizler, turns, and walks back towards his chair. I sit back down and finish the candy, hardly tasting it. We're having a staring contest. I can't tell who's winning. Maybe there's no loser in this game. He's chewing my gum, his jaw moving rhythmically. His right arm lying limply over the seat beside him, his right ankle resting on his left knee, his left hand is tracing the patch of five O' clock shadow on his chin. My eyes wander slightly upwards to his lips. They look soft and chewy, like two marshmallows I wanna slurp into my mouth and devour. His eyes are oddly dull for the brightness that seems to radiate from his entire being. On his head lies a mane of thick brown hair. It looks nicely groomed, styled suitably, slicked back with a few loose strands that dangle down in front of his face. He's dressed in a way that says "I care about the way I look, but I don't care enough to spend more than fifteen minutes getting ready in the morning". Today that entails a pair of jeans, and a snugly fitting white T. The fabric strains over his chest...I'm tempted to grab another piece of gum.

                He puts his wet clothes in the dryers. I pull my dry clothes out of the dryers and begin to fold them. He's watching me. I'm not looking at him; but I can feel it. He wants me to look up. He wants me to look at him. I can't muster up the courage, so I just keep my eyes down, admiring my now clean clothes. I hear footsteps approaching. He's standing beside me. I recognize the worn converse. I finally manage to look up at him. He's not chewing anymore. Must've spit out the gum. He's standing very close. I can smell him. He smells like cinnamon and cherry Twizlers. He bends down so we're nearly eye to eye. I smell the sweet on his breath when he finally speaks:

                "We were dying since the day we were born. How long does it take to die?"

                "A million years, and be there much sorrow for we only have but a short span to live."

                "So live, and live well. For sleep soon becomes eternal. Lasting."

                I'm amazed. "How did you- "

                He grabs the book half hanging out of my purse. "I glimpsed it when I first came over. I love Lockwood. He's my favorite poet."

                "I couldn't agree more. He's a rare gem. A true poet among imposters."

                So I was right. He's an intellectual. He leans in a bit closer and whispers, "That thine kiss were like that of an ember, dangerous and smoldering."

                "My lips do kiss to douse the flame that awakens a burning that cannot be numbed."

                His hand traces up my neck, to the nape, entangling his fingers in the waves of my hair. His fingers form a fist around the hair, and he uses it as leverage to pull my face closer to his. Our lips make a few brief encounters, brushing against each other as he speaks.

                "And oh, my maiden, rosy cheeked and fair, arousest thy not what thou' art not trained for."

                He spoke the last few words into my mouth as he kissed me. My lips parted eagerly to taste his. His mouth tasted fruity and minty. His lips were soft, and his kiss was firm. His hands groped my back. We were in a slight backbend over one of the folding tables. When we finally broke away, we stumbled a few feet apart, trying to balance our footing and steady our breathing. His hair was a bit disheveled. He pushed it back nonchalantly as I smoothed the non-existent wrinkles in blouse. Looking around, I noticed we'd acquired an audience. I counted four women, a few scattered children, and an older looking fellow who looked a whole lot like Bill Cosby.

                We smiled at each other, trying to contain our laughter. "Can I tell you something?" I asked.

                "Go ahead," he replied warily.

                "I lied. I hate liquorish."

                He smiled again. "Do you think if I took you to dinner later I could get your name, maybe even your number if I'm well behaved?"

                "There's Starburst over there in that vending machine. Those are my real favorite. I'm in a good mood - if you bring me some, I just might tell you my name. No promises though. I'll be sitting over there," I said pointing at my chair a few feet away. I walk to my chair and sit down, watching him lumber over to the vending machine with that grin on his face.

Jenny

I guess I’m a liar.

I told them I would meet them at the fair at seven.

I told them I was on my way at eight.

But I was lying in his arms.

I laid there in between the sweaty sheets twirling the purity ring around on my finger. He was asleep in a few minutes. I rolled over on my side, clutching the sheets to my chest and let the tears fall soundlessly to my pillow. I was lying in bed with a thief. He’d taken my virtue. I could report it stolen, but who would return it?

I drew my legs to my chest, pulling myself into a ball. The tremors rolled through my body like thunder. Holding in the gasps that shrieked inside my chest caused a burning like sensation at the base of my throat.

In anger, I tossed back the sheets and sat up; letting my legs dangle over the side of the bed and onto the shag carpeted floor. I wiggled my toes as my legs swung back and forth. Instinctively my hands caressed my stomach. The tears returned once more, streaking down my face and dripping onto my bare thighs.

I looked down at the silver band on my ring finger. The silver band with the words: true love waits inscribed in loopy cursive. I pushed the finger into my mouth, wetting it with my tongue. I pulled it out and twisted it loose, sliding it off of my finger. I turned back towards him and threw into onto the bed as I stood.

Standing there before the full length mirror pulling my hair back into a pony tail I realized that the girl the mirror reflected had a face different from my own. She looked sad and bitter – two things I was in short supply of.

Then I smiled at her and she smiled back at me.

There I am.

The Aimless Mind of a Brooding 19 Year Old

She spent her whole life dreaming. Everything and everyone she encountered told her
to stop. “It’s a waste of time” “It’s not healthy” “Grow up” they’d say. And eventually she
started to believe the things people said. She wanted big things - for herself and for
others, but it didn’t take long for her to realize the importance of settling. It made things
easier and she had the tendency to complicate them without even trying. She felt
isolated from the world just outside her door but she didn’t know how to change that or if
she even wanted to. The best things in life tend to waste away after a matter of
moments. They pass away as if they’d never existed. Maybe she’d imagined them all.
She began to condition herself to expect disappointment. It worked for a little while, but
hard as she tried to shield herself from the pains of everyday life - the bullet always
seem to find her. It always came, without fail and pierced her heart with little regard for
the repercussions. She longed for the day she would be good enough for the people
she loved. Maybe you had to earn it, and she hadn’t yet collected enough gold stars to
pick out of the treasure box.

Life. Of. Ventures. Everlasting.

It’s the way colors would taste if you could eat them. White would taste of contentment, yellow of happiness, purple of infatuation, red of passion, and pink would taste of endearment. Pick your poison; they’ll all be the death of you in the end.

                It’s the way it smells when it first begins to rain. Its aroma lingers like vanilla, fresh linen, or an open flame that’s sparks kiss your fingertips. It clings to your clothes and in your hair to be smelled by others around you. To some, this scent may be too strong.

                It sounds like complete silence amidst a roaring thunder. It’s at a frequency only you can hear and comprehend. It’s a ringing in your ears that leaves them throbbing or the echo of voices when you’re submerged in water --- starting loud and progressively fading away with the sunlight that rests on the water’s horizon.

                It’s the way butterfly kisses feel, faintly tickling your cheeks when they’re damp with fresh tears. Or the way your body shudders at the touch of a cold hand and your temperature elevates, leaving a numbness where fingers traced over your skin.

                It’s the way a sea of grass looks when you’re crawling on your hands and knees. It’s the sight of two hands clasped with fingers intertwined. It’s what causes your eyes to widen when you see the expression that lingers on her face when she thinks you’re not looking. The look that says all that can’t be spoken with words.

                It’s all the power that lies within that four letter, one syllable word. The word that redefines every one of your five senses. ..

                Love.

                Love may be like a lot of things, but it’s not like falling. I never fully understood the expression “falling in love” --- probably because it isn’t accurate, and doesn’t make sense. Falling is what people do on a daily basis --- love is when someone catches you. 

The Camera

10:38PM 8/18/12 – free write

                He was wearing that boyish smile I loved so much. It made my fingertips tingle with electricity. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was aware of his effect on me. It was a game to him…not that I minded playing along.

                His eyes search mine and his lips purse together. He’s thinking. I try to formulate my own version of his thought process. I draw a blank. I nuzzle against his stubbly face.

 “What is it?” I whisper.

“There’s something about you that’s both new and familiar. I can’t place it, but I know it’s there.”

I don’t want to talk. So I kiss him instead. He accepts it without complaint, his hand coming to rest at my collar bone. He has an unnatural obsession with collar bone. I roll over and grab His camera off the nightstand. He chuckles.

“It’s too late, I’m tired. I can’t.”

“Then, don’t. Let me,” I insist.

He doesn’t respond. I take that as an ‘okay’ and climb on top of him, straddling his waist to get a good angle from above. He moves his hands to my bare tights.

“Your hands are usually cold, but they’re always warm when it matters,” I say, squinting behind the lens.

“Well that’s good to know,” he responds, flipping on the lamp.

“The lighting is perfect.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. I like it like this – it’s natural ya know?”

“Natural. Okay. I think I got it.”

I ruffle his hair a bit and turn his head to the side. He looks at me sideways and I can’t help but to smile. His eyes are grey today. His lips are a rosy pink from all the friction caused by our kissing. He licks them absentmindedly when he notices me staring at them. Snap, zhooo. Snap snap zhoo. I adjust as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. I snap a picture of his chest, one of his stubble covered chin, one of his lips, one of his eyes. There was still a slight layer of sweat that made him glow in the soft yellow light. I push him back down onto the pillow.

“Close your eyes.”

“Like this?” he says closing one eye, and peeking out of the other.

“Close them both please.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I look at him there in the stillness. He looks so peaceful. My body warms and I find myself lying against the crook of his arm. His eyes open and I close mine. He’s humming. I’m purring. I feel his hand rubbing the top of my hair and nuzzle closer.

“Look at me,” he says.

I open my eyes. “What?”

“What, what?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“The look. You have that look. The one that the guy gets in every romantic comedy when he realizes he’s falling for the girl.”

He closes his eyes again. I seize the opportunity. Snap, zhooo. He rolls over, pulling away from me. I snap a picture of his back.

“Enough with the camera Steph.”

                I place it back on the nightstand and crawl over to him. I use my lips to greet him. His shoulder blades, the back of his neck…his spine. I taste his goose bumps. He rolls back over and opens his arms. I fit perfectly. His face is pressed against my collar.

                “You smell like peppermint,” he sighs.

                “I love you too.”

                He looks me dead in the face, trying to find the right words for the thought that’s being processed in his mind. His mouth opens as if to speak, then closes.

                “You wear it well,” I say, interrupting.

                “What?”

                “The look. It looks good on you.”