Category: life

The Light is Leaving their Eyes.

I’m an old fashioned fool when it comes to love.

What I mean by that is – I’d prefer to bump into your cart at the grocery store in the produce section while I’m picking out lettuce – not on Tinder or Plenty of Fish.

That seems to not be the way of the world anymore and it makes it harder for old school fools like me.

Currently: Still waiting at the grocery store for my husband to show up.

Most of my friends are in relationships, married, and/or have kids. Or some combination of that.

The friends who are not in a relationship – are on some form of online dating application.

And from what I’ve been able to gather from their stories over the years – it’s awful.

It goes a little something like this.

The flame is ignited, the wax slowly making its way up and down the sides of the candle.

He lives with his parents right now, but he’s in school. He loves his dog, they’re best friends. A super adorable labradoodle.

He’s working two jobs, such a hard-worker. Saving up to buy a house.

He’s a military vet, currently working towards becoming a police officer.

He’s 30, no kids, a miracle right?

He’s been responding with pretty long messages. The conversation seems to be flowing.

He actually wants to know things about me, hasn’t mentioned sex at all.

The bits and pieces of men you’ve never met intrigue you until you find the one that keeps your attention for longer than one conversation.

The candlelight glows hungrily in their eyes at this point – the ‘Could this really be it, possibly the one?’ Light.

Some meet instantly, others after weeks and months of conversation. Texting turns into phone calls that turn into video chats.

Sometimes you’re lucky to meet in a public place and you’re shocked that you’re actually on a date. Sometimes awkward, sometimes okay.

Sometimes you’re unfortunate and asked to meet at their place and you hesitate because you know this usually means they are only after one thing – sex.

Sometimes your luck is downright shitty shit and you’re asked to meet in a Walmart parking lot or something on the same level of WTF as that.

The flame burns, but it flickers. Not glowing as strongly as it did when your conversation first started – the fantasy in your head not living up to the reality.

The date was awkward and could have gone better, but some conversation is better than no conversation. Plus, aren’t most first dates awkward, anyway?

You really didn’t want to be the girl who has sex on the first night, but the intimacy of a physical human connection keeps your flame burning.

The parking lot is mostly empty, except for an RV Camper, an 18 – wheeler and two handfuls of late night shoppers and employees. Although you both have your own place and there are several places you can think of off the top of your head that you could have stopped into for a bite to eat or a drink that seem better than a Walmart parking lot, the potential that this could be something more propels you forward. Plus, the breeze in the still of the night, the glow coming off of the lights, and the cars zooming past you on the highway could sorta be seen as romantic, right? Right. Positive Thinking.

The flame doesn’t grow as brightly as it once did. We’re almost at the end of the candle.

He never calls or texts after the date. You dissect every second of it. Do you chew with your mouth open? Not that you can recall. Should you have worn the v-neck instead of the higher neckline? Do you look like your profile pictures? Maybe he was disappointed about that.

The conversation dies after the sex, but the sex continues. The only messages he sends now are sexual in nature and wondering when he can see you next to bed you again. You go anyway. Something is better than nothing and maybe the conversation will pick up again.

You’re in his car now, grateful that the parking lot is mostly deserted. While he’s running his hands down your body and grunting in your ear – you can’t help but recall that he never asked for your name. He doesn’t even know your name and he’s spilling himself all over your hand. He groans out an emotionless ‘baby.’ Any optimism or wishful thinking you were feeling dies in the moment he calls you ‘baby.’ And you think that you will never shop at a Walmart ever again.

The flame is dying, the light is leaving their eyes.

I wonder who is closer to love – is it me, hopeful while picking out lettuce or is it the girl with the message notification on her phone from 29 year-old Thomas who likes pina coladas and getting caught in the rain and thinks that’s still a catchy bio?

I don’t know the answer.

I’m just asking.

How do you know when you’re close to love?

How do you know when love has finally decided to pick you?

–S.

As Deep as the Ocean.

My heart is heavy tonight because I realize that it may never happen again.

Not that I want it to, but I may never find another connection like the one that I have with my best friend who moved away.

Not that I’m searching, but we live in that kind of society now.

Maybe it’s the generation that I am a part of.

I went out to eat with someone today – which I don’t do often these days – and they seemed so disinterested in what I had to say.

I’d say things that I’d tell her.

I’d refer to things that she would know.

Only to find out what I already knew – that this person wasn’t her.

We like superficial things now. We interact with people at work. We interact with people at school. We interact with people at the grocery store. We interact with people at the drive-thru. But anything more than this – is simply too much for you to ask us to do.

It’s too deep.

Depth scares us.

If there is no depth, it’s easier for you to rid yourself of that person.

It breaks my heart that lifetime friendships are a rarity in this day and age.

We meet seasonal people – over and over again.

We all search for it.

Connections.

Our Heart – Our Soul – Our Spirit – Our Mind.

They all yearn to be connected to something. Not necessarily romantic in nature. But just simply the comfort of knowing that one day you might not have a god damn thing to say or won’t know how to say what you need to say and that person will understand completely.

For generations to come, I wish you friendships with the depth of an ocean.

–S.

A Texas Summer.

That summer, he shaved his beard off.

She cut her hair.

Running his hand through her short hair, he said ”I loved your long hair, why did you cut it?”

She laughed and said, ”I tried to cut you out of it,” with sad eyes.

And he stared at her – like he’d tried to cut her out of his beard, too.

–S.

Black Boots.

2014.

I’m driving home.

It’s 2:32 in the morning.

It’s chilly in Texas now.

More late at night than during any other time of the day.

I wonder what the weather is like where you are. I turn the radio on, and I hear Justin Timberlake taking back the night.

I wonder what you’re listening to nowadays. Are you playing your piano?

I turn the radio off. I don’t want to take back this night. It’s beautiful. I want to burn it into my memory forever. It’s truly been special and I haven’t done anything special in quite some time. When I am wearing my faux leather black boots, I feel like I can do anything. I wore them tonight. If we still spoke, you’d know about them. I would have sent you a picture. I was dressed in all black with touches of gold jewelry. I felt sexy and mysterious all wrapped into one with a ribbon on it.

I laughed a lot tonight. Real laughter. I meant all of it.

And there was this moment when I was driving home, and the air was blowing aggressively against my face, that I missed you.

I really really missed you.

I wondered if you were at work maybe thinking of me too.

I wanted you to wrap your words around me and bring me warmth the rest of the car ride home.

I wanted you to lay me down on my pillow and sing me to sleep.

Your deep low timbre.

I would do anything to hear your smile – even over the telephone.

I don’t even need to see it, it would be enough.

Just to know that it was my smile. For me. Because of me.

If it’s cold where you are, I wish you warmth.

I wish you the sun.

–S.

I remember those faux leather black boots. I wore them into another love story. They were my favorite boots to dance in downtown. Eventually – one of them started coming apart and I would use black tape to keep it together. I was wearing them in dimly lit bars and clubs, but also didn’t give a fuck if anyone noticed the tape.

I loved those black boots. I LIVED in those black boots.

RIP Faux Leather Black Boots.

Nothing Mattered.

I want you to know that the nights we spent with outfits too short for our own good, dried up alcohol on our bodies from random strangers stumbling around the bar, sweaty hair, and cigarette smelling clothes are nights that I will never forget.

On those nights – we owned the town.

Two girls holding hands walking barefoot with their heels in their hands starting up at the skyscrapers of the city.

The whole city was lit up with neon signs, the moon, and the stars.

Nothing mattered on those nights.

Not whose heart was broken.

Not what college paper was waiting to be written.

Not what family or friend drama was developing.

Not that there was a work shift coming in the morning.

–S.

Wet Eyelashes.

Rain always reminds me of a moment from five or so years ago.

I’m in my second or third year of college. It’s raining really hard. I’m wearing flip-flops, as per usual, and I don’t have an umbrella. I’m also parked in visitor parking because I’m a commuter and can’t always afford the luxuries in life – like a parking pass. So, I’m in visitor parking, down an incline, the furthest spot on the campus from any classroom.

I step out into the rain from the cover of the parking garage and immediately get splashed by a car that is passing by – probably by someone who can afford life luxuries like parking passes. I think to myself – this moment is a metaphor for something I can’t quite connect yet – it will come to me later. This moment also sets the tone for the rest of my day.

But it doesn’t – because there he is, like a night in shining armor.

He’s actually not much older than me,  a student, in a beat up old truck – asking a rain soaked girl if she wants a ride to class. Before I can answer, he assures me that he’s not a psycho or a total weirdo. At this point, I don’t care what he is, I’m getting in the car.

I’m in the car and I’m wet, but I’m warm.

I’m warm and making small talk with a stranger.

I’m going to be on time to class.

Wet, but on time.

I  can’t remember details about his truck, just that it was beat up, noisy, and old.

I can’t remember his face or his voice or what we even said in the short distance between us in the front of his truck.

But I can remember feeling warm, inside and out, due to this act of kindness by a stranger whose name I never found out.

This is the moment I always think of when it’s raining.

I imagine him somewhere as some girl’s prince charming. Rescuing a cat from a tree, tending to a baby bird with an injured wing, helping a blind man cross the street, giving a stranger a ride in the rain, feeding the homeless, kissing a paper-cut before placing a band-aid over it, changing someone’s tire on the side of the highway, waiting up for you to get home – making people feel warm.

Today – I am standing under an awning in front of a department store watching a downpour. The entire sidewalk is wet except for a few millimeters in front of my black flats.

I guess I’ll wait for it to turn to a sprinkle or a drizzle before I make a break for my car.

But then I’m stepping into the rain and I’m soaked in seconds. I think to myself – this moment is a metaphor for something I can’t quite connect yet – it will come to me later. My flats are soaked through, so I stop to take them off, but I don’t run.

So, I’m just a rain soaked girl walking barefoot across a parking lot to my car.

I get into the car and I look into the rear-view mirror.

I am

gasping

smiling

laughing.

Rain is rolling down my eyelashes.

I am

living.

Rain reminds me of being alive.

–S.

Fading into the Background.

I think of myself as a side table that holds a lamp.

Or maybe I am the lamp.

Or a dining room chair.

Or a piece of art hung unbalanced on the wall.

Or a dusty picture frame.

Or an ottoman nobody sits on.

Or maybe I’m a spatula sitting in a drawer that’s barely opened.

Or a battery in a remote control.

That’s how working customer service makes me feel.

Like a piece of furniture, a piece of decor, or a kitchen appliance.

Something devoid of humanity.

I think I had two meaningful conversations today and they were both with co-workers.

Somedays, I don’t even know that there are two.

And I wonder – how much longer do I have it in me to be a ziploc bag or a plastic orchid or a garden gnome?

I wonder.

–S.

This is how it happens.

It happens whether you want it to or not. Somehow without actively noticing it, you pick up bits and pieces of your parents. You hope for the best parts. Mom’s ability to be a better person and be nice to everyone. To see the best in others. Dad’s ability to make everyone around him laugh. The walking party.

And then there are those things that you can’t change, but maybe you could live without. Mom’s shyness. Dads temper. And then you wake up one day and you’re all of these things mixed together in a blender. And your mom tells you, you’re just like your dad. And your dad tells you, you’re just like your mom.

But they are things you can’t live without. Living and breathing examples of the people you love most. You’re a paper mache art project made by people who didn’t always know what they were doing, but did the best they could.

–S.