a love letter to snacks

Dearest Snacks,

You know who you are, and this is why I admire you so. It's not your sweet melt-in-mouth goodness, or the crunch that's come (oh!) unexpectedly — it's that's mellow feeling you hollow out inside me that magnetizes me to you without a fight.

But, Snacks, it's clear to me that perhaps our love affair is lopsided. Perhaps I need you more than you need me. Perhaps you can just as easily find another unassuming girl who could get swept up in all you have to offer — and maybe she'd have no guilt in indulging you. I think you actually said this to me once, that I liked you more than you liked me, and then you swiftly exited through the backdoor. I found it rude at the time, and I honestly can say that I don't know why I'm even bringing that up to you now.

I apologize. This is a love letter for Christ's sake. I was going to say for Hershey's sake or Crunch's sake, but I decided to go for sincerity and got the Lord involved. Even just then I would have substituted Lord for Truffle or something insanely perfect, akin to Christ. Or a something like a Whatchamacallit.

This, my darling Snacks, is a love letter. And I love you, Snacks. I love you so much.

Dammit. I feel like a fool for how long I've loved you, stood beside you as you taunted the chubby kids with your soft exterior, and smooth as butter (and sometimes butter) center. Loved you as you made me feel bad about myself. Loved you even when you stood on the top shelf, just out of my reach, but not my sight. You're cruel, but I love you anyway.

I do, Snacks. Please, please — I beg you. Don't leave me ever. The sun couldn't set without the moon there to step in, just as I couldn't live without you. Don't ever say I can't have you. Don't try to make me enjoy you in moderation. I will have all of you or none of you. Anything else would be too painful. You agree, don't you, Snacks?

All or nothing when it comes to you, Snacks. I won't have it any other way.

You understand, don't you? I'm sorry it has to be this way. I love you too much, and maybe, just maybe, that's my problem. But, I won't talk to anyone about it, Snacks. I can only console this imminent grief with more of you. Treat my disease with that which will make me worse.

Let me know how you feel after reading these prose, and if you feel the same as I, either leave me alone forever, or meet me at the Jewel. Aisle 5. You know where to find me.

Love forever, or never,

Brigid E Marshall

i'm a memory

i pace inside daily, and sprint outside come night.
i wake you up when sleeping
there's no escape
im wrapped around your throat tight

there are no words spoken
no feeling of air exiting your lips
i cannot be pinpointed.

there are blades of grass. they are lime salted
margarita mixed
you think about them in a blink
and then
they're gone

like me, but ever present.
so not.

i drive a fancy sports-car
it goes incredibly fast
so fast you might miss it

feel the blade of grass, that one
yes
that's her.
the one beneath your big toe.

can you feel it?
no

i whisper gently to you
lulling you to bed
until tomorrow when there is nothing
for you're surely dead

there are sheep above you
count them
one. seven. nine. four. noon.
you'll be up there with them
dead so quickly soon.

i live inside your heart. your brain. your candy-coated skin.
i live inside you until there's nothing.
and no one knows i was therein.

i cannot be pinpointed.
im a squiggle on your notepad in the middle of the night

count them.
one. seven. nine. four. noon.
there is no deciphering my meaning.
it'll all be over soon.

settled

Two nights ago I couldn't sleep. After returning late from an improv show at iO I was stuck thinking and rethinking about everything that had happened before, during, and after the show. Since I'm moving to Los Angeles in about a month all I've done lately is reflect on my years in Chicago. I had a few things to do on my checklist before I could leave here. I've done them all, and now I'm more than ready. But it's been all the things and people between those bullet points that have made Chicago everything. I landed here by default, but I chose to stay for as long as I have because I loved it.

All night Monday I was up going through drawers in my bedroom, clearing out what I assumed would be junk, but what I found instead was treasure. I found countless notes, cards and keepsakes from nights out. These were things I knew I would want to look at again before I boxed them in an old shoebox. I know myself well enough to know that these are the things I'll want to look back at when feeling low, maybe in LA, maybe wherever I go after that.

One of my favorite little things I found was a piece of white computer paper that I had written some thoughts on one night while at my parents house. There were existential questions like, "Why are we here?" and hopefully non-predictive statements such as, "Eventually, I will be broke," accompanied by an arrow pointing to the name: Peter Francis Geracy, Illinois' premier bankruptcy attorney. I can't decide if I meant PFG will say this or if he's whom I should call about going broke in the future. Both seem like viable options. But, what I liked most about this note I'd unintentionally written to myself was this poem:

They never loved you
I never loved you
I loved you, but I didn't
I did as much as I could

-and I was timid.
I was nervous. and I acted like we were new. and then it was old.
we were old. and we weren't supposed to be together
-and now I'm scared that I'll be alone and you were it.
and now I'm alone, but I never settled
Is that better?

-I wasted your time.
-I wasted your time.

It was followed with this:

If I were me right now I'd run. I'd be fine, until right before. My heart would race like crazy and I'd convince myself it wasn't nerves -- until I'd realize that would mean I'd have a heart condition. I have it all prepared. I have it played out in my mind. Why does my body convince itself it's not ready. Not prepared. No one else up here is really all that special. Every day I think -- I could do that. But here I am failing at the one thing I want. It'd be sort of funny to want to be a banker. And every time you count money you can't count because money made you so nervous. Living in general would be difficult. Money is such a big part of life. It really is.

There's this constant push to be moving forward, and I love that push. I love that drive, that fire, to pursue life fully despite nerves, despite fear, despite obstacles. It's a funny thing to never feel settled, and perhaps it's less in the destination, but more in the people where you're settled. Once you find your people, that's where the comfort is. So for me, I'm settled in Chicago. I'm settled in Iowa. I'm settled in the U.P. I'm settled in Lake Forest. I'm settled in San Francisco. I'm settled in Los Angeles. I'm settled all over because everyone I love is out there pursuing their lives, as I am.

So no, I did not waste anyone's time and no one wasted mine.

glassy eyed.

The other day I found my childhood diary. Yes, the one I had faithfully written in for five years from ages 7 to 12. As a kid I remember spending a lot of time alone hiding in the playroom's small walk-in closet, living like a hermit listening to the sounds of my siblings playing together while I retreated into my separate imagination. I created a whole world in there. A whole world by myself that Larry, Colleen, Sean, Timmy and Kevin couldn't disrupt. Thinking about it now, there's something about loneliness that has always plagued me. And however cliche it certainly is, I remember how much I wanted to be paid attention to as a child. I remember how accurate the term crush was every day of junior high. I remember thinking the neighborhood girls were snobby and that at heart, we had nothing in common anyway; I could never bring myself to fake it. Now 15 years later not so much has changed. I'd rather actually be alone than feel alone with people who happen to be next to me. Maybe everyone's like this. Maybe not.

There's something about loneliness that has buried itself in my heart. I don't share my feelings regularly. Sometimes I feel like an emotionally vacant person, like a dad in the 50s, like Don Draper. But the thing is about dads and Don Draper is they do have feelings, a lot of feelings and they're wandering lost just like the rest of us. There's this constant struggle of not wanting to show our cards because if you do then you are open to the elements. And somehow, when the moment strikes and you actually find yourself in that moment of vulnerability, you get stung. Every time you vow to keep it locked up tighter next time, don't share, don't care, don't don't don't, somehow someone comes along, and magically they get that guard to come down, and right when you think you're safe -- you just...aren't. Perhaps we're meant to be breakable, but to what end?

Growing up my family mockingly teased me by calling me glassy-eyes, referring to the way my big brown eyes watered uncontrollably whenever I would actually express how I felt. I would try so hard to keep my emotions at bay to no avail. A slight shiny, wet film would overcome my eyes just waiting until those heavy tears couldn't help but spill over. Now, I attempt to close off entirely, if not by neglecting a good cry, at least doing it at the AMC River East some random Thursday morning during a showing of whatever I want to see by myself that day when no one can see how much I care. Perhaps a stranger will see me in the dark responding disproportionately to the sad parts in Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine, but that's ok.

One of my life-friends, a compatriot in not wanting to need others, recently returned from a long, long walk. A 32 day walk spanning 800 km along the Northern reaches of Spain. The Camino de Compostelle. She's been a person seeking adventure and finding it as long as I have known her, which is now over a decade. Reading her entries reflecting on her journey and after talking last weekend over french toast, she has come to a place of serenity and openness that I have never quite known. This particular post struck me. I was overcome with how much there is here. I didn't cry, but I wanted to:

There was no other choice. It was clear. 

There is strength in weakness. 

There is beauty in needing people and reaching out your hands for help. 

We weren´t made to walk alone.

It's so easy to become swept up in what it is to be lonely, to assume everyone else is a part of something, to feel as if you're on the outside. It's so easy to be the wallflower sitting in your apartment on New Years, or any Friday in September, listening to the sound of life in the next building over. But even if all those things are true, even if 5-year-old me was that way, that doesn't mean 27-year-old me has to be.

5 Things I Love

I found an old notebook the other day. And, again found my love lists. So, in honor of my little discovery, I'll write another list.

5 Things I Love:
1. my sketch comedy group (long pause) and our perfect show
2. when someone tells me i've left an imprint on them and their life
3. iced lattes from asado that carly makes for me because she's the sweetest of doves
4. walking/dancing by myself on my walk home from the wilson redline at 4 in the afternoon
5. the collection of people i work with at the goodman

What joy!

Nothing Happens.

One look at her face and they were all goners.

She had a way of unraveling everything anyone had worked so hard to keep tightly bound. Tadie Richards crossed her legs, sat on a bar stool and men came from across the room to fawn over her. Yes, fawn. They didn't know it was happening until they were long lost, enchanted even before they heard the soft melody of her voice. She did nothing to attract or detract; she just was. As a child she was a rambunctious sort, winning the affection of her peers easily, always telling stories, knowing when to laugh, when to be open and when to hold back. It was no different decades after that little girl traded in her curled pigtails and lacy socks for an A-line mini dress. Tadie smiled a winning smile, giggled when something was funny and typically saw only a few feet in front of her, yet still somehow was able to take in the entirety of a room. It was hers, and the room knew it.

John James entered Anchor Pub swiftly removing his pea coat to dust the dandruff-like snow from his shoulders. It was all a well-timed movement. First this, then this. He surveyed the crowd, groups of two, three and four clustered around freestanding tables. His grey-green eyes adjusted to the dimness of the establishment causing the soft creases of his crows feet to appear. His lips parted, not quite a smile and to no one in particular, he made his way to the coat rack. No one ever seems to use bar coat racks, he thought. Finding the label, he hung it gently and patted the sides being sure the pockets were empty. Adjusting his collar, loosening its hold around his neck, he headed to the bar.

Tadie had seen him almost immediately, a rare occurrence, noticing someone. Her back to the bar, sitting on a high stool, facing out, she thought he surely couldn't not notice her as well.

"Excuse me." He bumped her left knee trying to squeeze between chairs and people. They didn't make eye contact. He didn't see her, really, at all.

"You're fine," she said, unsure if she should say something else, but he had already forgotten.

"--can I get ya, friend?" The bartender.

"I'll have a New Castle Brown -- thanks."

Six dollars, then another dollar tip, popped the cap off, and already John had moved to the other side of the bar, locating the group of friends he had intended on meeting.

Tadie sat there, the room suddenly seemed small and so did she.

HANG UPS. (At the Jewel)

HANG UPS

BY BRIGID MARSHALL

DRAFT 2

CAST

AMY – mid-twenties, disillusioned

EMMA – mid-twenties, silly

KRIS – mid-twenties, sensible

Jewel-Osco. Three girls are in the fruit aisle.

AMY I mean, exclusive hook ups are a far cry from a real relationship.

EMMA Right?

AMY Yeah. I mean. I think so. Apples?

KRIS Well, it’s not really.

EMMA Yeah, apples — What do you mean, Kris?

KRIS It’s not really that far of a cry from a real relationship. Oh, Asian pears!

AMY (Picking up Asian pears) How so, sensei?

EMMA (Buddhist-y, picking up carrots and petting them) What is real anyway?

KRIS Well, it’s exclusive, darling grasshoppers.

AMY Yeah, and?

KRIS Well, isn’t that the biggest part of what “being in a relationship” is?

EMMA No.

AMY No, I don’t think so. See, you need to like, talk about it and stuff.

KRIS Fine, then what is?

AMY Love. Or something.

KRIS So you’re not in a relationship until you’re in love?

AMY No, that’s not what I’m saying.

KRIS Then what are you saying, Confucius?

EMMA More like confusing-cius.

[EMMA high fives herself.]

KRIS You win, Emma.

AMY I’m saying, stay with me here. But. Ok. So, if you’re exclusive with someone sexually that doesn’t mean you like them as like in a boyfriend kind of way. Necessarily. You might just like them for their hot toosh.

KRIS God.

EMMA (All existential, but jokey) God?

AMY Yeah. Well, that’s what I’m saying.

KRIS You’ve seen too many movies like that fuckin’ No Strings Attached and whatev.

AMY What of it?

KRIS It’s kind of gross, Amy.

AMY Banging for pleasure?

KRIS Jesus. Yes.

EMMA I mean, I don’t think it’s a big deal, or whatever. I’m not going to judge you.

KRIS I’m not judging. I have no room to. Ugh.

EMMA So wise. But yeah, I get your point, K. But, I guess I just…don’t necessarily…agree?

KRIS That wasn’t a question. Stop upturning your statements.

EMMA (Upturning on purpose) OK?

AMY Well that’s because of Jim.

KRIS Oh, la la! Jiiiim.

EMMA Shut up. (Completely changing subject) I wish I had those tiny Asian lady shoes.

KRIS The ones made of wood and stuff?

AMY Like the ones they wore on the Chipmunks? – Stop changing the subject.

AMY/KRIS Jiiiiim!

EMMA Shut up.

KRIS/AMY SH’UP!

AMY I don’t think so. Jiiiiim!

EMMA Seriously. We are not in a relationship, unless relationship means never sleeping over and getting texts at 12am and answering them like an idiot.

AMY Or maybe that just makes you someone who just understands the thing of it, and wants some booty, too?

KRIS But don’t you want more than just booty, Em?

EMMA Yeah.

KRIS Well, then, change the relationship.

EMMA Easier said than done.

AMY Yeah, what a greeeeat suggestion, Kris.

KRIS I’m only saying you can’t expect the relationship to change if you don’t change.

AMY WISE SENSEI!

KRIS (Does something dumb physically, like bowing too emphatically) The wisest!

AMY Fortune cookie, Sensei.

EMMA/KRIS/AMY (All bow to each other repeatedly repeating over and over) WISE SENSEI, SO WISE, kanichiwa, etc.

KRIS Wait. Stop. You’re just a booty call if you’re not in a relationship, even if it’s exclusive. OK?

EMMA/AMY WISE SENSEI, SO WISE, Kanichiwa, etc.

KRIS This turned real quick.

(Black out.)

Summer in the city

It's 4:00 a.m. and so incredibly hot. You know, that sticky kind of heat that not even the best fan can break up. She's been moving from her bedroom to the living to the bedroom and back again, a short respite in a cool shower, and then snap to a few hours later. It's time to start the day. So says the sun.

It's 6:37 a.m. and already she's tired of this day. There are dishes in the sink, collecting quickly, gnats finding a home where they previously didn't exist. An empty bottle of Palmolive sits on the edge of her grubby sink. A grim scene if any parent were to walk in unexpectedly.

"Oh, Kimberly May, this is just--" and her mother would cut herself off, because she knew her dismay said more than any more words could. Ah, tone of voice. The careful decision to use her daughter's first and middle names. Disappointment, a feeling Kim knows well.

About a month earlier, it was probably 11:54 p.m. on a week night, Kim had called it quits with a guy she barely could say she was seeing casually. Or, put another way, if someone had given her a plus one to a wedding she would think about inviting this guy, but wouldn't because in the end the relationship had no legs to stand on. She tried not to be so cynical at the start of it, but that's hard, so with each passing day her defeatism grew into an inevitability, well, a defeat.

So, now it's noon on a Saturday. The week ended as quickly as it began. Thankfully so. She woke up late, having been out til the wee hours working the night before. She woke up alone, sticky in the summer heat. There's no room for anyone in this home, void of an air-conditioner, anyway. Sweat. Solo. Summer.

"Summer in the city, I'm so lonely lonely lonely I've been hallucinating you, babe, at the backs of other women And I tap on their shoulder and they turn around smiling But there's no recognition in their eyes " -Regina Spektor, Summer in the City

dads. my dad. dads.

Sheila & LarBear. 2012.

This is, I guess, more pertinent, or timely, than most of my posts. Mostly, because it's non-fiction, and it's about my dad. Oh, Larry Marshall, a man that in every moment is a dedicated daddy-o, entrepreneur, non-shirt-wearer when in the yard, self-described short-ditty-songwriter, avid gardener and amateur real-estate aficionado. My dad has always been a driver in my life. It took a long time to realize that he drove so hard because he hoped that the six of his kids would drive ourselves in the same way. He did good.

I will always prefer striving to stagnant, type A to slacker.  In short, I'm an Annie Edison, as opposed to a Jeff Winger. I don't know how to be content, so to this, I say thank you. There's always more out there.

The pair of us would make lists as I grew up. I don't know if he did this with my siblings; I have an inkling this particular habit sank into my sister Colleen's life though. We are so similar when it comes to how we go about dreaming and working to achieve. Perhaps it was a "Father of Girls" move. How lucky were we to have such a caring, thought provoking man as a dad? And remains so.

Me & Dad. 2013.

These lists, ah, these lists, they'd be the lists comprised of all sorts of things: what I was interested in, books I wanted to read, books I'd read, places I'd like to visit, places I'd visited, my favorite facts, things I loved, goals I set, goals I accomplished, people I admired, and so on into all spheres of life. I have kept many of these lists throughout the years: a hoarder of the relics in my own life. And for my unsurprising love of memoirs, I've kept track of myself for years in hopes that eventually I'll be able to piece together where I've been, where I'm going and where I want to be by the time I'm old. To this my dad laughs, then reflects on how he has grown and changed over the years. He'd think about if it were his little life lists. "I look pretty good, right?" A common catchphrase, more than a question. Then, he'd twirl the hairs on the back of his head, smile a side smile, and continue, "...feel like I'm 17, but then I remember I'm not. Doesn't matter. I feel it. Ya know, Bridge, you're as old as you feel." When he said this to me for the first time, he was in the midst of growing his hair a little longer in the back — he called it his stylish baby curls, while everyone else called it a mullet.

 

Birthday. 2010.

He discovers things and shares them with me, and luckily for me, he has promised to keep doing so. The other day he texted (by the way, it was a very exciting day when he learned to text) me about wanting to go to the Elbo Room or the Hideout to check out "Who's who in music land." Someone had recommended he'd like Robbie Fulks. Always an adventure seeker, despite living in the suburbs.

There was a time I remember so clearly: I was a teenager, Armageddon had just come out, and the film's album couldn't get enough airplay. When Chantal  Kreviazuk covered John Denver's "Jet Plane," my dad was so in awe of the song that when he came home one evening, and I greeted him in the driveway, as I was prone to do, he told me to get in his parked car, so we could listen and then re-listen to it over and over again. My favorite moments are when he turns to me and says, "I'm a pretty cool guy, right?" And, he genuinely wants to know my opinion, all the while genuinely believing himself to be a "pretty cool guy." He genuinely is.

I forget how lucky I am to have the kind of parents Steve Martin tends to play in movies. See Father of the Bride or Cheaper by the Dozen, if you're not sure what I'm talking about. Few people know what I have, and I am so thankful.

Colleen. Brigid. Dad. Christmas. 2012.

Something like it.

There were pictures everywhere in his apartment. Not pictures of family or friends, or anything that would speak to who he really was, but rather these faux antique prints. They were cool, mind you, but it bothered me. I couldn't quite figure out why until now. Something inauthentic about the nature of his life. I laid down my coat, as I had a few weeks before, on the floor. He picked it up, put it on the back of a kitchen chair. It hung there limply. We sat. We sat and starred at one another for a few seconds, each taking the other in. It felt like it had been a while, yet none at all, and at the same time it genuinely felt like it wasn't real. Oh, the irony.

A few weeks really isn't very much time. Don't we all let time slip by without even noticing? Years go by before our base instincts of "Wait! What's happening in my life" kick in. It's adult time, and a lot can happen in adult time. Blink, and you're thirty, or fifty, or dead.

It was late when I came over. Rain swept across the street, my wedges drenched in January precipitation. Not wearing enough make-up for it to run. Buzzed in. Door opened. Welcomed.

"So what's been up?" I asked, knowing his answer would be as void of content as my question.

"You know, just been busy." Ding ding ding. A pause. "You know."

But I didn't know. That's why I asked. How easy is it to get out of actually knowing a person? Very easy.

"Yeah," I smiled. "I know."

A few minutes later, jokes exchanged, conversation came easier, and with that a comfort we all long for. But it's a fake comfort. A fake relationship. More like a relationship that in the end no one wants, so we discard it like the groceries we intended to eat, but instead let spoil.

There are smiles that in the end mean nothing, and a connection that is no connection at all. So we sit at the bottom of the bin; it was anything but pretend, because it happened. And we both wish it didn't.

"And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile" -TS Eliot. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

but, choices.

There's something that happens right before you're about to take a leap. It's not faith, though. It's the ability to look past the stupidity of that moment, that decision, that That. If you say it's faith you're assuming a definitely positive outcome, and honestly, most big decisions are positive only in that you finally made a choice. They don't necessarily point to a fullness or hopefulness in the future. They might or might not. There's no such thing as a sure thing.

For a lot of leaps I can do that, I can leap however stupidly forward. I can follow a trail of bread crumbs hoping to find a candy house without a witch, all the while knowing there might be a witch. "Oven roast it when you get to it," should be a phrase.

But then again, for the things that involve someone else, limits impose themselves. It hurts too much to treat life and choices like they don't mean anything. Like what I do has no affect, and vice versa. The thing of it is, is, well, it means everything: life and choices. That's all life is, but a collection of choices: the ones you've made, the ones made for you, and the ones others make that affect you. Everything you do and everything you don't finds a way to take its toll on your heart. Heart, humanity, comme ci comme ça. So, there's nothing more natural than that moment of fight or flight, and nothing more telling about a person and their goals based on whether their "F" word has an "L" in it or not.

You only have one heart, after all.Chances are by now we've all been damaged irreparably, so we can't afford to be careless.

Dear Chicago,

You'll never guess.

You know the girl you said I'd meet someday?

Well, I've got something to confess.

She picked me up on Friday.

Asked me if she reminded me of you.

I just laughed and lit a cigarette,

Said "that's impossible to do. "

My life's gotten simple since.

And it fluctuates so much.

Happy and sad and back again.

I'm not crying out too much.

Think about you all the time.

It's strange and hard to deal.

Think about you lying there.

And those blankets lie so still.

Nothing breathes here in the cold.

Nothing moves or even smiles.

I've been thinking some of suicide.

But there's bars out here for miles.

Sorry about the every kiss.

Every kiss you wasted back.

I think the thing you said was true,

I'm going to die alone and sad.

The wind's feeling real these days.

Yeah, baby, it hurt's me some.

Never thought I'd feel so blue.

New York City, you're almost gone.

I think that I've fallen out of love,

I think I've fallen out of love...with you.

-Ryan Adams, Dear Chicago

commuting.

The sound of skinny tires gliding along pavement, like an athletic symphony, plays in her ears. Never mind the cacophony that's actually blasting all around. She's sitting on the edge of a CTA train seat, the Red Line, headed South into the Loop. It smells like the perfectly imperfect blend of ammonia and homelessness that only the floor of an El train can know fully. The person next to her has no problem taking up their own seat and hers. But she can't say anything. After all, it would be so awkward.

This is every single week day now.

But she can hear it, anyway--hear the way a road bike sounds, smoothly dancing down Dearborn street from Chicago's North side on southward. As summer pretends to start, bicycles unsteadily enter the grid-like stream of the city. She can see them from the train, nervous for them, nervous for those riders, the ones who are safe, the ones who aren't, and the cars that can't tell the difference.

And just like that, she remembers what it's like out there; Chicago's impenetrable humid air somehow able to create a breeze beneath her body, whizzing down city streets. And just as quickly, she remembers that feeling of pure fear as doors are flung open, as cars turn right without a second thought, as pedestrians run in a lane designated for someone else. And. the. list. goes. on.

So, she sits on the train, thankful to get a seat, knowing the person next to her could not possibly want to be there any less than her.


LINKS

• On May 29, 2013, Bobby Cann was killed while biking home from work. This page is to honor his memory and his passion for bike safety.
• My Bike Advocate
• Neighborhood Bikeways Campaign

We're Working On It.

1"Get off of my back."
2"You...do it."
1"What are you saying?"
2"I'm saying that maybe you need to chill out."
1"Or maybe you do."
2"What are you saying?"
1"Stop repeating the things I'm saying."
2"Asking."
1"What?"
2"Asking. You were 'asking' not 'saying.'"
1"I fucking hate you."
2"Right."
1"Just chill out, and leave me alone."
2"Why should I?"
1"Because I am 'asking' you to."
2"All I want to do is talk to you."
1"And all I want is some space. So how about you give me that. Huh? Can you just listen to the things I am saying?"
2""
1"Can you just take the hint that maybe, just maybe, I'm not in the mood, and I don't need to explain myself to you. Because I am a person. And the things I say, and the things I think are my own things to have for myself. And, maybe, just maybe, not everything is about you."
2""
1"Yeah...Thank you. Thank you for just shutting the fuck up when I ask you to. Thank you for realizing, maybe after this chat I literally could give two shits if we ever spoke again. I don't want to be mean or anything. But you are making me be mean. You're making me be this way. And, well, I didn't want to be this way. Because it's nice when people want to talk to you, to know you, or whatever. But, it's like I don't really know you, not really, at least, so like, take a step back and reflect on that shit...Count them."
2""
1"Two. Shits. One. Two. That's it. That's what I am giving to you."
2"I get it."
1"Good."
2"I think you're wrong though."
1"Jesus."
2"No, I do. And here's why:"
1"You can't 'Here's why' me, dude. You can't because, I am subjective. Everything about what I think is what I am allowed to think. So, you can take your 'Here's why,' and shove it in your glove compartment."
2"My glove compartment?"
1"Yeah."
2""
1"Fuck you."
2"Well, how's about a 'fuck you'?"
1"I could give a shit!"
2"Then why are you still here. Talking to me? Why? Huh? If you could give two shits?"
1"Because I just am. God. What, I can't be here anymore because you're here? I can do whatever I want. And I do. And will. So, yeah. Just. Chill out. Like I thought you were OK before, but now I'm like 'Fuck this manipulative person.'"
"2"I'm manipulative?"
1"Yes. Yeah. Yes. Yes, you are. You can't just say, 'Hey, we're friends.' 'We're having a good time,' and then be like, that is truth. No, because there are two people here. And not to make your point moot, or whatever, but I'm here too, anyway. And, I don't want to be, so respect that. Just because something isn't terrible, doesn't mean it's great. The opposite of terrible isn't what's happening here. I mean. It is now. But it wasn't. It was just fine. But I don't want fine."
2"You don't."
1"That sounded like a question. But it's not a question. I want to spend my time the way I want to. So, just let me."
2"Fine."
1"Fine."
2"I still think you're wrong."
1"God, you're so condescending."
2"No, wait. Listen...We have a good time."
1"Are you not understanding me? 'I' isn't the same as 'We,' and what I am saying is, you had a good time. I had an OK time. Thus, 'We' did not have a good time."
2""
1""
2""
1"I'm going now...Have a nice life."
2"Have a nice life."
1"Stop repeating the things I am saying!"
2"We have so much in common."
1"Oh. Jesus."

And, Then We High-fived

“You are atrocious. Absolutely atrocious.”

That’s my mother, saying those things, those things about me, her daughter. Her eleven-year-old daughter. Fast-forward a couple years and Alec Baldwin’s calling his tween kid a little pig. Parents, you’re awful. That said, I’m sure little Baldwin was being a little oinker, and I know I was atrocious. 

Now I’m the same, but different. Now I don’t care, or rather, I try not to care. Why care when you don’t have to care? 

There’s too many people in this day and age who care too much about things that in fifteen minutes will be forgotten. With this quick paced, go-go-go, atmosphere, it’s as if nothing gold even is gold because it loses its fucking shine nearly immediately.

I tried to explain this concept to my idiot of a math teacher this morning when I allegedly “failed to complete the assignment” assigned. Well, fuck if I care. 

One thing’s for sure, I’m getting out of this city after graduation. Fourteen days.

Fourteen hell-ridden days, but just two weeks. I’ve got to change my perspective if I want the time to float past.

“Hey, Karry!” That’s Lindy, she’s a friend of sorts. I’ve known her for most of my life. She’s my neighbor and has been since the second grade. She’s one of those girls who’s just nice. It’s just innate. In her. She can’t not be a kind-hearted soul. Brunette, average height, smiley. You know.

“Hey, Karry.”

“It’s going to be so weird next year, well, like three months from now.”

She’s referring to high school being over and moving on to college, for her, and for me, she thinks college, but I know I’m flying to France. I haven’t told my mom this, or anyone really. I’d like to Irish exit the country. Fly the coup without anyone even realizing I felt caged.

“Yeah, tell me about it.” I didn’t want her to though, she would though. I always forget how literally she takes everything.

“Well, with me at UC…” She’s talking about Urbana Champaign, the University of Illinois at. You’re not supposed to end sentences with prepositions. “And, you at – where you going, again?”

She put her book bag down on the ground, as if deciding to stay a while.

“I’ve sent a letter of acceptance to UC in the city.” I was talking about the University of Chicago. And, I’m not lying. I said I’d go there. But, I don’t intend to. Sort of funny, sending a letter of acceptance, a letter of intent, for all intents and purposes, and just, well, bailing. 

“That’s great. You’re gonna do great.” 

She said it, convincing herself, probably wondering how I got in. I don’t even know. I’m smart, not a genius, but I wrote a solid letter when applying. It was pretty standard for me, actually. I barely tailored it to each school I applied. The only thing I changed was which school I addressed it toward. 

Karry sounds a lot like my mom, but she wears a smile instead of a frustrated grimace. Grimace is my favorite cartoon character — so rotund and jolly. We’ll see how I do in France. Honestly, I’d just rather not be here. It’s not like I hate my town or the people in it, it’s just, everyone is in an assembly line to their deaths. It’s not like they’re going to have bad lives or anything. It’s just, their lives are going to be pretty standard. 

And, I don’t want to be standard. American Standard. College Bound. Wide Ruled. Times New Roman.

Given the choice between atrocious and jovial – I’d pick atrocious. Not because it means I’m bad news, but rather because I’m ferocious. Savagely fierce. Ready to take anything on. And there are less people like that, less people ready to take on the world, less people willing to see what’s beyond their yard, or neighborhood, or town or anything that defines who they are, where they come from and where they might go.

I hadn’t noticed the lull in our conversation.

“Well, cool. I’ll do great too. Yay, Illini.” Her hand went up for a high-five.

“Yay, indeed.” And, then we high-fived.

pretend

I don't pretend to know
how it feels to lose a child
to spend all that time thinking
this was going to be it
and then to learn
it's not
I don't pretend to know
what it's like to lose a parent
to living loving and learning
from them
only to realize they're human
they'll die
and you will too
I don't pretend to know
where it is ants come from
how they hide
and what they think
I don't pretend to know
where it is we go
when it's all said and done
maybe somewhere
maybe nowhere
who cares?
I don't pretend to know
what forever feels like
then to be left
then to be left
then to be left
I don't pretend to know
these things
but I wish I could

Locks

Struggle. Struggle. Struggle — and, there we go.

Alright, alright. We're in.

Unlocked that door, noooo problem.

 Oh, Pontiac Grand AM, you easy, easy bitch.

 Good god, this car is a mess. What the fuck? Why? Why, girl? You eatin' Chex Mix in here. That's a mess, a mess in the making.

Oh, dang, they're all smashed up all up in your dashboard. Girl. You dirty mess.

What?

What are those? Gees, come on.

 Leaves? You got leaves up in your car?

Please. What the hell, girl? Come on, now. Between the peddle and the behind the peddle? Really? How can you push on the gas, girl? You've got hella strong legs. Smashing those leaves, making them all little. Girl.

Let's see...Whatcha got in this car? Chex Mix, god there's so much of it. Three bags? Get more food groups, geez.

Arm rest. Opens up easily. No brute ass force necessary.

Ok. Holy water — well, so much for that working. Dumb.

Alright, what else we got?

A cord. A long ass cord. Why's this cord so long? Where's it going to?

Follow, follow, follow the wire...and it just goes to nothing. It's a broken cord. Great. There is nothing in this bad girl.

Ah, glove compartment, how could I forget?

Open that shit up.

Cool cool. No lock. Smart chick, is what we got here. Knows if these doors just flick open, why bother locking anything else. Why bother locking them doors at all, huh? Anyone can get in those doors if they want to enough. Can't keep nothin' locked up. Nope. Not from me. You really can't.

Nothing's really yours at all.

You try to protect yourself, no dice.

 What we got in this glove box. Some hangy dice? Why aren't these hangin' on this mirror, girl? Huh? Let's hang these. Woop woop.

Alright. Lean back. Nice seats. Not leather, but soft. What is this, micro suede? This not micro suede.

Feel like I'm on a futon. Could just go to sleep here. Maybe I'll go to sleep here. Can't take nothing of value, might as well take some nap.

Just close these eyes of mine.

Pass some time.

Pass.
Time.
Pass.
Time.
Pass.
Time.

Alright, this is weird. Get out of here. Close these doors. Start to walk away.  Oh, can't leave without taking at least something. Search that back seat real quick.

Three  bags of Chex Mix? She won't miss one. Take the cheddar.

the things we do when we don't know what to do.

"You can't hurt me," she shouted defiantly from the roof deck of her three floor walk-up. The mere act of it was proof of everything that she hoped to stave off — hurt. Evelyn Alexander.

After graduating from the University of Nebraska, she picked up and moved to California. She took up an apartment in San Francisco in the Mission District. She loved the vibrancy of the neighborhood, the colorful homes that danced along treeless streets, the sound of salsa reverberating from clubs and first floor garages, and the smell of fried tamales blocks away. She'd lived there only three weeks, but each day it felt as if it were all for her. As if every place longed to be explored by her. Three days per week she drove up to Marin County for her internship at a simple living magazine, but the other four were left for city expedition.

The roommates she found on Craiglist were unconventional and excellent partners in that sort of Lewis and Clark way. To be fair, all people who lived in the city of constant overcast save for their neighborhood, were perfect partners. Something about the air breathed casual adventure. The Mission, sunnier and warmer than the rest of the city, gained its name from the Catholic Missionaries of Mission San Francisco de Asis, who manifest destined all the way up to the bay area in 1776. And now it was Evelyn's personal manifesto to learn about herself through new happenings and change that would keep her busy.

"I can't be hurt!" She yelled it louder than before, determined to believe its false truth. She rubbed her forehead and leaned into the edge of the balcony, her shoes pressing against the right angle of the roof and wall. She was slightly inebriated from a night of sangria and dancing with her roommates.

Christine and Lila welcomed Evelyn into their apartment on Florida Street with open arms, as if they were sisters already. They had an empty room that faced the backyard; it was furnished with a wicker cabinet, a futon and a lamp with a red shade over it sat atop a round nightstand. Upon her first look, as she eyed everything she sarcastically thought all the room was missing was a hooka or some statue of Buddha. Looking out the bay window she could see a mismatching patio set, a lemon tree and plums that fell from the neighbors house next door into their yard. Come October both the lemons and plums were juicy and ripe for eating.

The three of them would sit on the back porch watching the sun set, the sky changing from a whitish yellow hue, fading into a peach haze before it completely darkened to navy. Christine had a record player and three records, which they would play over and again. Bonnie Prince Billy, William Elliott Whitmore and Pedro the Lion in a tripod rotation. Christine would often go to Amoeba Records in the Haight to buy more, but somehow either never made it there or would come back with a CD or a poster instead. She'd hustle up the twenty front steps to their kelly green front door, push her way through, and apologize before anyone knew what she was rambling about.

"There was a man on the bus telling me his life passions, and I missed my stop, and then I came home forgetting why I was out." Some version of this.

Her crackly voice didn't match her small stature. She had ashy yellow hair, coarse from years of dying it various shades of pink, red, orange, a pale complexion marked by freckles, and three moles on her right arm.

Whenever the front door opened, Lila would be there on the couch, a velvet faded cobalt blue number, reading her book, some biography, certainly about a random politician like Spiro Agnew or Henry Wallace. Between chapters, Lila mostly worked as a barista at Sugar Grounds around the corner or contemplated graduate school. She went to the University of California at Berkeley for undergrad. At five-nine, she was the tallest of the three and would often bring around guys in the 'about-six-foot' range. Ted, Lila's current boy, fit that bill, and was a regular in the ladies' kitchen, and could commonly be found drinking the last of the orange juice or scanning the pantry for nothing in particular. Lila would say, "If you want something, ask for it," to him time and again, but he never did. She'd psychoanalyze it later with Christine and Evelyn over bagel bites and ginger beers determining that perhaps she should take her own advice, be direct, and ask him to stop scrounging around her kitchen if he was hungry. "It's not even that he's hungry, it's that he just opens the fridge, looks inside and then closes it without grabbing anything. What is that?"

The three made for an interesting triumvirate: Lila bookish vixen, Christine high strung hippy, and Evelyn Midwestern escapee.

"You can't hurt me." Evelyn wiped tears from the corners of her make-upped eyes, whimpering the words and thinking of the joy-filled night she had earlier. Lila had invited Christine and Ev to come dancing with Ted and herself at El Rio, a local dance dive. It was on Mission Street and Cesar Chavez. The two singles said they would come, vowing to take life in stride and join in on the fun. Upon entering the club Evelyn was asked to dance nearly immediately by an elderly Latino man, who then led her to the dance floor which was three steps down, a sunken garden. Christine went to the bar, ordered a round of tequila sunrises and found a spot to watch those dancing. Ted was surprisingly good on his feet, swiftly guiding Lila who wore a black maxi dress and large coral red earrings that dangled loosely as she moved, her brown honey hair swaying to the rumba.

After a few dances Evelyn bid adieu to her partner who kissed her a wet one on the cheek before letting her join Christine for a cocktail. Then the two of them laughed and talked about their recent exploits. Across the bar the pair spied Lila, who had moved on from dancing, and waved her over. She left Ted to his own devices and joined her counterparts, all smiles and laughing. The kind shared by new friends that would inevitably be lifelong.

"I'm untouchable." Evelyn whispered it to herself. She sat facing the center of the roof patio, her back to the parapet. Lila and Christine were downstairs on the porch debating if they should pick plums as a deep neon rose haze overcame the sky. Evelyn got up dusting her exposed legs off with the palms of her hands. She would be fine. For now the bay was her calling and Lila and Christine were her life's blood.

fair

It's not fair, is it? The way people make one another feel, that is. It's just the way it is, and there's nothing we can do about it. And while it's not a problem when you're feeling good, or when someone causes you to feel good — because it's goodness, yeah? — that doesn't make it any more fair, does it? It doesn't. It really doesn't. Fairness is a tricky minx with a fur coat.

We allow others to use us because we so want to be useful, want to feel important, want to feel like we're part of something bigger than ourselves if only for a day. We use each other. Over an over.

The reason we're so concerned with fairness is because of the constant jilting that happens in each relationship, no matter where you are on the timeline. Every time you think you get somewhere something happens that causes you to go back or skip ahead. The Game of Life. Ugh.

Paloma Faith illustrates this feeling in her song "Agony." It reminds me of a post I wrote on MightNotBeTrue two years ago or so.

"You wear your heart on your sleeve"

Picture this: Blood rolling down the sides of a hand; it drips down splashing delicately onto the top of a foot; a heart pumps to the beat of a metronome. The cuff of your shirt sleeve is dyed a deep pinot noir. The room is silent, save for the pulsating beat of that metronome and the slow drip-drip-drip crashing to the floor. It's the sort of silence that causes you to hear everything. With each passing moment the risk of infection increases, so you can't wear it out for too long. You might die — so we don't do it. We don't risk our health in hopes of clinging tightly to our humanity. We want to last a bit longer. Don't worry that we might not be living at all. But we all die anyway, so what's the difference? The difference is all in how it happens. Most people don't want to die of a broken heart, dried out, raw from waiting outside too long. We don't wear our hearts on our sleeves because we can't.

Use me take me home and use me
Press your hands into my body
You'll be my sorrow
We both know it shows
Push me
Make me feel I'm weightless
Running
We will not escape this
Shake this
You'll be addicted
I'll be inflicted.

This is agony
But it's still a thrill for me
This could end in tragedy
Pour yourself all over
Oh, no time to waste
Lets fall from grace.

Save me
Save me with your kisses
Give me
The angels and their whispered wishes
I wont fall down
My soul is bound.

This is agony
But it's still a thrill for me
This could end in tragedy
Pour yourself all over
Oh, this is agony
But it's still a thrill for me
This could end in tragedy
Pour yourself all over
Oh, no time to waste
Lets fall from grace.

Everyone says you're bad for my head
But I'm in denial
One look at your face
I'm back in that place
I'm feeling the fire
This is agony, this is agony.

This is agony
But it's still a thrill for me
This could end in tragedy
Pour yourself all over
Oh, this is agony
But it's still a thrill for me
This could end in tragedy
Pour yourself all over
Oh, no time to waste
Let's fall from grace. 

The real hurt of it is, though, is that it always ends in such a way. The best thing you can hope to gain from pouring your whole world into another person is that they die after you do. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't do it, but it makes it clear how much putting your hope in someone else is such a leap. It's no wonder that so many chose not to.

fizzle

She felt like a classy, new, fun, fabulous version of herself. It had been years of simply doing the same old thing, but now after a slight revamp this little miss was ready to go out on the prowl. She was bubbly and full of personality, and interested in finding someone who would go ahead and just drink her up.

It was cold in her house, and even with her practically brand spanking new exterior, she couldn't help but slip on another layer as she waited for that lovely someone she had met at the grocery store earlier to pick her up.

Eventually he did come by, scooped her up with his massive hands, and held her closely for a time enjoying all she had to offer. They went back to his kitchen. She was sitting on his counter, feeling a sort of half fullness. He was staring at her, debating on whether to continue this courtship, if you can even call it that.

And after what seemed like no time at all, he walked away from her, went somewhere else, and found something else to satisfy him.

She was left there alone wondering how it could have all fizzled away so fast.

But there was still some of her left, there always is, it seems, just barely enough to remind herself of what she was: A Diet Coke can.

not ironic.

"I'm not this," Taylor Albrecht said to herself.

She was walking home from some guy's house. It was 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning. The night before she went to a party at a friend's house. She went home with another friend of hers. They messed around. She regretted it instantly. He couldn't have cared less...not necessarily about her, but about the other things.

"People fool around in their twenties," he would later say over the phone when he called to be vaguely chivalrous. "Yeah, people like Penny Marshall in the '70s," she'd answer.

She was supposed to feel good about the fact that he called her. She didn't feel good.

"I'm not this," Taylor said again to herself.

For as long as she could remember she had been in serious relationships with people she could picture a future with. And now, on the corner of Mesirow and Ronalds Street in front of Thai Thai Thai restaurant she found herself searching for a cab to take her home and away from this life she somehow walked into —four-inch heels and all.

A white Jeep drove by. She thought of the OJ trial. It had happened when she was in fourth grade. Talking out loud, wrapping her arms around her torso, "What was that, 1995, '96?" She was in Miss Devlin's class then. The week was a blur to her now, but she remembered watching that car chase and thinking how slowly everything was happening. That same year the Olympic Torch toured the US via train. It had stopped in her town. Everyone's parents took them out of school to watch as it pulled up to the train station, except her parents. Her parents had forgotten it was happening, so Taylor spent the day with Miss Devlin and Ke Xao, the new student from China.

As more cars drove by Taylor's memory was jogged until finally a yellow cab headed toward her. She unwrapped her arms to wave it down, but the cabbie missed her and went for a woman wearing appropriate clothes for a brisk fall day. Taylor didn't look like a harlot or anything, but she was missing the crucial element known as a jacket and should have been wearing flats at this hour. The woman, on the other hand, was obviously out for groceries or to run some sort of errand, maybe stop at TJ Maxx for some pre-Black Friday Christmas shopping. Taylor looked back at the scene and laughed, then said, "This is not ironic."

She was the person she thought she'd never become. Sure, she was experiencing this momentous 'walking home in the wrong outfit at the wrong hour in the wrong shoes' occasion six years after she was supposed to experience it as a freshman at the University of Wisconsin, but nevertheless there she was. The notion of better late than never passed through her mind. She judged it harshly. "God," she said out loud to no one but herself. "Some things shouldn't be late, they should just never arrive."

Her four-inch heels clicked on the sidewalk as she turned away from the cab. She started to take a step in the direction of her apartment, a mile from there.

"Hey!" It was the grocery-store-errand-lady. "Hey!"

Taylor turned, correctly assuming that the only other person on the street was in fact speaking to her.

"Who me?" Yes, of course you, she thought.

"Yeah, you need this." The woman had dark brown eyes and blonde eyelashes. She wore a pink hat and a green puffer coat. She looked like a teacher. Everyone looks like teachers when they're running errands — something about the frantic state one gets in when checking things off lists.

"Are you sure?" Taylor asked, clicking toward the woman.

"Please," the woman said. "You need this."

The woman smiled, understanding that Taylor wasn't a woman of the night and perhaps just found herself in a situation she hadn't foreseen the night before. This woman got it. She probably was Taylor at one point.

"Really?" Taylor stood in the street between the cab door and the seat.

"For sure," said the woman.

As Taylor sat down and closed the door, the woman waved to her. Taylor waved back and mouthed "Thank you."

She got that phone call from that guy. It played out as she thought it would. She told her roommates about her night. They all laughed about it like girls who didn't know what else to do. When telling the story later she'd say things like, "We're nothing but our experiences, right?" Then Taylor would remember that woman out running errands early on a Saturday morning and hope she might be her eventually.

dancing with my own shadow

The lights go out, I am all alone
All the trees outside are buried in the snow
I spend my night dancing with my own shadow
And it holds me and it never lets me go
-Of Monsters & Men

For most of my life I have lived as an atypical righteous good girl. Judgmental, sure. From a good place, always. It's only as an adult that I now live in shades of grey, though not quite fifty. I'm unsure of my life choices, unsure if there's a master plan, unsure if any of this matters in any way at all. One of my life friends (a friend I will retain for life) refers to himself as a nihilist and lives as such. He lives for today. Lives abroad. Cares about others. At times dresses in a style that would make a stranger wonder if he were homeless.

In a way that sort of nothingness is both freeing and emptying. If nothing matters than we're free to live without expectation, aside from the ones we may still decide to give ourselves. My friend has given himself the expectation that he will always aspire to learn about the world, himself and others, while abiding by the basic principle that his freewill should not affect or diminish that of another in a negative manner.

Honestly, I don't think a lot matters. Not to any serious point, at least. Is that sad? Probably. For me, I think that what matters is what you do in the moment and whether that will color the decisions you make thereafter positively. What matters is, if you can go to sleep and feel like you had a day worth living.

I want to know if you can be alone

with yourself

and if you truly like the company you keep

in the empty moments

-Oriah, "The Invitation"

I've made choices. I've made choices that I once would have deemed poor, but now having made them, I don't feel badly because the terrible things that I assumed would come simply didn't. My fears weren't justified. What is that? How can I have been so convicted, so convinced, in other words, so sure? And this is where I am. In the middle of a sea of grey. Empty and full at the same time.

All I want to do is live in a way that won't fade away from memory. No words have ever rang more true than these:

"Everything in life is about being seen, or not seen, and eventually, everything IS seen." 

-Brooke, "Other Desert Cities"

Maybe I'm not a nihilist. And maybe I don't know what happens when we die, but I know that for now, what I do on a day-to-day basis can be found reflected in this notion of being seen. It's likely the reason I love to perform. You don't feel alone when you perform. Even when you're on stage solo. There's a crowd. And there's a bond, and even if it's fleeting, you remember it. Those moments.

ducks

Cherry trees lined the edge of the river that ran through campus. Beautiful, sweet blossoms cascaded down from their branches, creating a light rose tinted pathway where couples would walk together after some dumb date. They'd hold hands and look at each other, laugh maybe, and they would be real laughs.

Greg and Sharon were on a good date. They had met freshmen year in a Post-Colonial literature class, bonded over doing crappy impressions of their German teacher's accent and ended up being the sort of friends to each other whom one calls when they can't sleep. Eventually they decided the other was attractive enough to kiss at this party they went to on Burlington Street during Spring break their senior year. All their other friends went home or to Panama City or to some other random warm place. From there it just seemed to make sense to transition their silly friendship into a romantic one.

"But if you couldn't ever watch Bridget Jones again," started Greg, grabbing Sharon's hand, "Then what lady comedy would you watch on repeat?"

Clasping his hand with both of hers, she smiled, thought for probably too long in regards to her movie preference and settled on Clueless.

"Clueless?" He poked her in the side, kidding.

"Yeah. It's a classic," she said, attempting legitimate justification. "It's a classic nineties film."

Unconvinced, he held her hand again, and they walked, looking ahead, and then to one another. Sharon blushed, and Greg liked it. Sharon had green eyes and light skin; her liquid foundation was Bobby Brown Porcelain. She was thin without being skinny and had soft features, which went against the grain of her, at times, cheeky attitude. The Burt's Bees Rhubarb tinted lip balm she wore daily was the pop of sass that showed her character.

"Paul Rudd's in it!" She couldn't let it go. She really wanted that justification. "Who doesn't love Paul Rudd?"

The answer is of course, no one, because everyone loves Paul Rudd. That smile — his wavy hair, and just enough crows feet to make him look less like a little boy than like a man.

"That's fair," answered Greg. He laughed as he said it. Sharon was so earnest in her hope to convince him of the merits of Clueless. "Everyone does love Paul Rudd, oh and that dude from Scrubs."

"Turk?" she questioned.

"Yeah," he responded. "Turk."

Greg smiled a no-teeth-smile, tightened his hand around Sharon's, then winked at her; the left side of his face scrunched, his mouth opened, and his jaw askew. He had light brown hair, parted to the side, and a beauty mark to the left of his left eye, between his hair line and eyelashes. Five-eleven, and of Scottish and Spanish descent, he had freckles along with a sort of olive complexion.

"I know, and this is why that film is a classic," Sharon explained, "Solid early twenties actors, a clever script, and a weird high school, college, step-brother/step-sister dynamic." She always used her hands to explain, which was hard when holding hands, but she just pretended as if Greg's hand was part of hers, and moved it as if its connection to Greg's arm was natural. "Oh! And the classic nod to Shakespeare's Emma."

"Even if Alicia Silverstone is in it?" Greg joked.

She paused, then responded, "Yes, even if Alicia is in it — Brittany Murphy cancels her out." It seemed as if she was done, but then she added, "And, well, Alicia isn't bad in this, it's everything after."

The pair continued to walk along the river path, and came to the waters edge. A couple of ducks were washing their feet, looking as if they weren't sure if they'd like to take a full dive in. Sharon saw them and wanted a closer look, so they moved to where the ground got marshy, and also ended up looking as if they were about to wash their feet.

"They're so cute," Sharon cooed, then pointing at the baby one said, "I just wanna pick that little boo up and take him home."

 Greg smiled at her, thought of her taking care of a duck, then for a second thought of her taking care of a kid in the future, then he let that thought pass, tucking it away for a later date. They backed away from the edge of the river.

As they came upon on a weird plastic bench covered in cherry blossoms outside the university's art building, Sharon asked, "Is this art?" a twinge of disdain in her voice.

Greg followed after her, saying, "Yeah, I don't know if we're allowed to sit here."

"There's no sign." She paused, "Well, I guess I'm sitting here."

She sat down, crossed her legs toward him, looked up, and beckoned him toward her. "And, you too."

Normal

It bothers her, the way he would lick his fingertips after chewing back a bag of Cheetos. The way those fingers stayed orange, despite his slathered efforts, would stick with her throughout the day. Mary Lynn thought of it most often when sitting on the bus, riding home to him. They are a couple, unmarried, but he's hopeful. She's still unsure, always on the fence. Mary Lynn thought about how much she wanted to say, "Hey, buddy. You bother me, and here's why..." But she never would. Being honest would mean being open, and being open would then unseal all the possible pain and frustration that being open leads to.

"Cambridge," said the bus driver. It was a muffled 'Cambridge.' If she didn't ride that bus every day from downtown to her apartment she wouldn't know what he was saying. But she had lived in Boston for most of her adult life, so she knew a thing or two about the city.

Tom is his name. Her non-husband's, that is. He's a physically fit, guy. Wears ties regularly. Enjoys a bag of Cheetos after work on his commute home. It was the one thing he stuck with from his childhood. Most guys keep a daydream or maybe remember their first middle school girlfriend fondly, but not Tom. Cheetos were his middle school girlfriend, so to speak.

Mary Lynn got off the bus at "Lipton." It was a stop earlier than her normal routine, but she had to pick up a gallon of milk at the 7-Eleven because Tom had finished their old gallon earlier that morning. She knew he had drank the last of it because he was the only person in the house to blame. They didn't have kids, and truth be told, Mary Lynn didn't think she wanted any. It was chilly outside as she got off the bus, her Dansko shoes clunked with each step. She knew they weren't attractive, but they were comfortable shoes for the walk.

As she approached the 7-Eleven Mary Lynn began daydreaming about what her life would be like if she moved, or if she got a different job, or if she had kids. She imagined moving to someplace sunny. Earlier that year she had taken a semi-vacation to Captiva Island, Florida, for a wedding. Tom couldn't come because he had some work engagement. Mary Lynn didn't mind going by herself. She wasn't in the wedding, but it was for a friend of hers from college. They had gone to BU together. Boston University. So, she imagined moving to Florida. She imagined getting a job doing marketing for one of the boating companies on some illustrious pier. She imagined meeting someone new. She imagined all of these things without Tom.

Swinging the 7-Eleven door open, Mary Lynn scanned the store, knowing full well where the milk was located already. She moved past three rows, then turned. The milk was on the back wall near the beers and pop. She eyed the lowest priced full gallon of milk. $2.39. "Not bad," she said to herself.

"Excuse me?"

Before she even looked up she apologized.

"Oh, no, sorry, just grabbing a decently priced milk."

The "excuse me?" came from a man. He was tall, if not slightly overweight, but he had a nice face, a slight bit of stubble and straight teeth.

Mary Lynn looked up to find a nice smile.

"That's why I love this store," the guy added. "Convenient and cheap."

Mary Lynn smiled, mumbled a "Right," then an "Excuse me," flustered. She went up to the counter, paid her $2.54 for the milk and tax, looked back for a second, then left.

While walking the extra three blocks to her house from the store, she attempted to fish her keys out of her work bag, a black Timbuktu. It was hard with milk in one hand, and they were at the bottom. Outside her apartment she rang the bell for apartment 2R.

"Who is it?" That's Tom.

She pushed the button again. "It's me."

The door sounded, and she went inside to her life.