Red stilettos entwine my feet, drops of blood at the end of black shrouded legs. A gasp emanates from the door; she's staring at my shoes.
"I hope you're not going to wear those."
I point my toes, stretch my calves. "I wore them on our first date."
And the first time we made love, I remember.
She struggles for words. "I don't think they're appropriate. You shouldn't wear them."
"I think I should." I move on the floor in a solitary slow dance, annoyed with her.
"They were his favorite. I think he'd like it."
She clenches her fist, her emotions beginning to rise. "I don't want you to wear those shoes. I don't think you should make a mockery of his memory."
I glare at her. "Don't speak to me about memories, they're all I have left."
Tears begin to form in her eyes as she growls very slowly, "You are not going to wear those shoes. Not today."
I tense, ready for a fight.
"Don't tell me what to do, I'm burying my husband!"
"AND I'M BURYING MY SON!" she roars.
I look towards the floor; submitting, yielding defeat, I remove the shoes and put them back in the box. A song about angels and red shoes dances in my head. I slip on a pair of worn, black flats and follow her out of the room, my head bowed. The shoes repose in their box, waiting for a more appropriate time to be embraced.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Avenging Angel
"That's enough!"
She looked over and gave him an insolent smile. Damn her and her incessant meddling! He walked towards her but she held her ground, arrogantly defying him. He towered over her as he stood before her.
"Stay out of this. It's no concern of yours. I won't have you in my business."
She held his gaze, her smile growing larger.
"Why do you care? You discarded her, used her for your own pleasure and then cast her aside with out a second thought. It's no longer your business. She's no longer yours." Her smile faded as she growled the last sentence.
He raised his hand to strike, then thought better of it. Lilith was not someone to cross. Her large, delicate wings were unfurled, her hand grasped the hilt of her sword.
"You've had your fun, Gabriel, too much if you ask me. Always stalking the weak. You and your kind always look for easy prey. Forcing me and my kind to clean up your messes."
She moved closer, raising herself on tip toe, her lips so temptingly close to his. He bent to kiss her; she dropped to her feet and stepped back, laughing.
"Not today, beloved. Not until you've suffered as much as she has." She flew off into the fading light, laughing at his pain.
Gabriel stayed perched on his cloud, his wings heavy. He sighed to himself, then unfurled his wings and took flight, looking for new hearts to break.
She looked over and gave him an insolent smile. Damn her and her incessant meddling! He walked towards her but she held her ground, arrogantly defying him. He towered over her as he stood before her.
"Stay out of this. It's no concern of yours. I won't have you in my business."
She held his gaze, her smile growing larger.
"Why do you care? You discarded her, used her for your own pleasure and then cast her aside with out a second thought. It's no longer your business. She's no longer yours." Her smile faded as she growled the last sentence.
He raised his hand to strike, then thought better of it. Lilith was not someone to cross. Her large, delicate wings were unfurled, her hand grasped the hilt of her sword.
"You've had your fun, Gabriel, too much if you ask me. Always stalking the weak. You and your kind always look for easy prey. Forcing me and my kind to clean up your messes."
She moved closer, raising herself on tip toe, her lips so temptingly close to his. He bent to kiss her; she dropped to her feet and stepped back, laughing.
"Not today, beloved. Not until you've suffered as much as she has." She flew off into the fading light, laughing at his pain.
Gabriel stayed perched on his cloud, his wings heavy. He sighed to himself, then unfurled his wings and took flight, looking for new hearts to break.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Broken Hearts
"Hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable."
The Wizard of Oz
They were walking down the street when he ventured, “Does it hurt to get a tattoo?”
Smiling slightly she answered, “A little, it’s like a scratching, bee sting type of pain. Why do you ask?”
Waiting for the light to change, he tried to be casual in his reply. “Oh, I don’t know, I was thinking maybe I’d get one.”
He glanced over to see her reaction. She regarded him curiously.
“You don’t seem the type. You really have to be committed to get one.”
He felt somewhat diminished by her answer.
“What would you get?” she asked.
He pondered the question.
“I was thinking of a broken heart, on my arm, with her name on it.”
She flinched a little; dating a man with a dead wife was like being in a macabre ménage a trois, without any pleasure for her.
“I’m not a big fan of putting other people’s names on my body. It’s usually bad luck; I mean what happens when you break up?”
“You can’t break up with a dead woman,” he said softly.
They walked in silence until they reached her apartment.
“If you’re really serious, I know a place. I’ll go with you if you’d like” she offered. His body relaxed and he smiled.
“I’d like that. Maybe we can get the same thing.”
As she said good night all she could think was, I’ll be damned if I’ll have another woman’s name on my body.
He picked her up on Saturday and they drove to the shop. The day was hot and humid, the air thick and still. He was nervous, but didn’t want to back out now. Still he was worried, what if it hurts a lot, what if I faint? They walked into the shop where several heads were bent over various limbs and torsos. One man looked up, smiled at her in recognition and called out.
“It will be a few. Look through the books and see what you like.”
She handed him a large binder with drawings; tigers, hearts, angels, daggers, every shape, size and color. He flipped through the pages, looking at the multitude of designs. The room was warm, despite the air conditioner. He looked over towards the other room, listening to the low buzz of the tattoo machine. He let his fingers drum across the top of the book. She placed her hand gently over his.
“If you’re not sure, you don’t have to do this. Not everyone’s cut out for a tattoo. It doesn’t matter to me.”
He squeezed her hand back, and thought maybe he’d rethink this, when someone called his name.
“Did you find something?”
He cleared his throat and pointed to a picture of a large heart, broken in two down the middle.
“This one. I want to put someone’s initials on it.” He followed the artist back into the room and sat down.
“Where do you want it?”
“Here,” he said, pointing to his left bicep.
“Ok,” the artist said, “Take off your shirt while I make the stencil.”
He sat in the chair,his bicep exposed and tried to relax as the artist applied the stencil.
“Try to stay as still as possible, and make sure you keep breathing.”
Taking a deep breath he exhaled as the man began to draw the outline of the heart. He flinched a little, but as the pain became regular he began to relax, only occasionally tensing up. He sat like that for over an hour. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead.
“Take a look.”
He walked over to the mirror and saw the broken, bleeding heart etched forever on his arm. He smiled at his reflection.
“I like it” he said, holding out his hand.
He went to grab his shirt and started to walk out of the room when he suddenly felt light headed. Next thing he knew he was on the floor looking up; she had a cold clothe and was wiping his brow.
“Are you ok?”
He felt like an idiot and tried to sit up.
“Hold on, not so fast. Just rest a little longer.”
He stayed on his back a few more minutes then tentatively sat up.
“I’m ok,” he said, smiling meekly. “The heat got to me, that’s all.”
She helped him up, and the two of them slowly walked out of the shop.
“Do you want to get some ice cream?”
He felt the last shred of his masculinity melt away.
The next morning he was still in bed, his arm throbbing slightly, when his daughter snuck into his room.
“Dad,” she whispered, “Who’s in the bathroom?”
He didn’t bother to open his eyes.
"A friend,” he mumbled, “Why don’t you go play in your room for a while and let Daddy sleep some more?”
She stayed next to his bed, suddenly gasping.
“What’s that on your arm?”
He tried to sink under the covers, pulling the pillow over his head. He felt her jump on the bed and grab his arm. He opened his eyes and found her perched over him, staring intently at the new piece of artwork. She gently let her index finger trace the outline of the heart.
“Who’s BM?”
“Mommy,” he answered.
She pondered this information.
“Who’s EC?”
They both looked towards the bathroom as the door opened.
“Oh” was all she said. They both waited for her to appear in the doorway, and when she did, she smiled shyly and said “Morning, glories.”
His daughter got off the bed.
“I’m going back to my room now.”
They heard the door close behind her. He pulled the pillow back over his face as she sat on the bed next to him.
"What did she think?”
“About what? The tattoo or you?”
“Either, I guess.”
He thought for a moment.
“She didn’t say anything. I guess she needs to get used to both.”
She bent over and kissed his broken heart.
“I think we’ll both be around for a while.”
©2010 VL Sheridan
The Wizard of Oz
They were walking down the street when he ventured, “Does it hurt to get a tattoo?”
Smiling slightly she answered, “A little, it’s like a scratching, bee sting type of pain. Why do you ask?”
Waiting for the light to change, he tried to be casual in his reply. “Oh, I don’t know, I was thinking maybe I’d get one.”
He glanced over to see her reaction. She regarded him curiously.
“You don’t seem the type. You really have to be committed to get one.”
He felt somewhat diminished by her answer.
“What would you get?” she asked.
He pondered the question.
“I was thinking of a broken heart, on my arm, with her name on it.”
She flinched a little; dating a man with a dead wife was like being in a macabre ménage a trois, without any pleasure for her.
“I’m not a big fan of putting other people’s names on my body. It’s usually bad luck; I mean what happens when you break up?”
“You can’t break up with a dead woman,” he said softly.
They walked in silence until they reached her apartment.
“If you’re really serious, I know a place. I’ll go with you if you’d like” she offered. His body relaxed and he smiled.
“I’d like that. Maybe we can get the same thing.”
As she said good night all she could think was, I’ll be damned if I’ll have another woman’s name on my body.
He picked her up on Saturday and they drove to the shop. The day was hot and humid, the air thick and still. He was nervous, but didn’t want to back out now. Still he was worried, what if it hurts a lot, what if I faint? They walked into the shop where several heads were bent over various limbs and torsos. One man looked up, smiled at her in recognition and called out.
“It will be a few. Look through the books and see what you like.”
She handed him a large binder with drawings; tigers, hearts, angels, daggers, every shape, size and color. He flipped through the pages, looking at the multitude of designs. The room was warm, despite the air conditioner. He looked over towards the other room, listening to the low buzz of the tattoo machine. He let his fingers drum across the top of the book. She placed her hand gently over his.
“If you’re not sure, you don’t have to do this. Not everyone’s cut out for a tattoo. It doesn’t matter to me.”
He squeezed her hand back, and thought maybe he’d rethink this, when someone called his name.
“Did you find something?”
He cleared his throat and pointed to a picture of a large heart, broken in two down the middle.
“This one. I want to put someone’s initials on it.” He followed the artist back into the room and sat down.
“Where do you want it?”
“Here,” he said, pointing to his left bicep.
“Ok,” the artist said, “Take off your shirt while I make the stencil.”
He sat in the chair,his bicep exposed and tried to relax as the artist applied the stencil.
“Try to stay as still as possible, and make sure you keep breathing.”
Taking a deep breath he exhaled as the man began to draw the outline of the heart. He flinched a little, but as the pain became regular he began to relax, only occasionally tensing up. He sat like that for over an hour. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead.
“Take a look.”
He walked over to the mirror and saw the broken, bleeding heart etched forever on his arm. He smiled at his reflection.
“I like it” he said, holding out his hand.
He went to grab his shirt and started to walk out of the room when he suddenly felt light headed. Next thing he knew he was on the floor looking up; she had a cold clothe and was wiping his brow.
“Are you ok?”
He felt like an idiot and tried to sit up.
“Hold on, not so fast. Just rest a little longer.”
He stayed on his back a few more minutes then tentatively sat up.
“I’m ok,” he said, smiling meekly. “The heat got to me, that’s all.”
She helped him up, and the two of them slowly walked out of the shop.
“Do you want to get some ice cream?”
He felt the last shred of his masculinity melt away.
The next morning he was still in bed, his arm throbbing slightly, when his daughter snuck into his room.
“Dad,” she whispered, “Who’s in the bathroom?”
He didn’t bother to open his eyes.
"A friend,” he mumbled, “Why don’t you go play in your room for a while and let Daddy sleep some more?”
She stayed next to his bed, suddenly gasping.
“What’s that on your arm?”
He tried to sink under the covers, pulling the pillow over his head. He felt her jump on the bed and grab his arm. He opened his eyes and found her perched over him, staring intently at the new piece of artwork. She gently let her index finger trace the outline of the heart.
“Who’s BM?”
“Mommy,” he answered.
She pondered this information.
“Who’s EC?”
They both looked towards the bathroom as the door opened.
“Oh” was all she said. They both waited for her to appear in the doorway, and when she did, she smiled shyly and said “Morning, glories.”
His daughter got off the bed.
“I’m going back to my room now.”
They heard the door close behind her. He pulled the pillow back over his face as she sat on the bed next to him.
"What did she think?”
“About what? The tattoo or you?”
“Either, I guess.”
He thought for a moment.
“She didn’t say anything. I guess she needs to get used to both.”
She bent over and kissed his broken heart.
“I think we’ll both be around for a while.”
©2010 VL Sheridan
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The Watering Hole
He enjoyed hanging out with his students during the summer sessions; they were his own age or slightly younger, and it was easy to relax. Most would never write more than a grocery list. Only one, Vanessa, had any true talent. He noticed she wasn’t lounging with the rest of them. Vanessa reminded him of a tiger, beautiful and regal to look at, but dangerous to get too close to.
One of the others, her eyes flirting, asked, “Who would you have sex with from this class if you could?”
He moved away from her. Why did women think that being vulgar was a mark of sexual confidence?
“It would be extremely inappropriate to be intimate with one of my students.”
He reclined on his elbows, letting the sun hit his face.
"But if you could,” she insisted, stalking him, “who would you pick?”
He ignored her and listened to the chattering of the others.
A voice said, “Well, if I had a choice, I’d pick Vanessa.”
He smiled at the thought.
“I think making love to Vanessa would be a terrifying experience, like a praying mantis being devoured by its mate” he said to no one in particular.
He was enjoying the sun when he realized it was suddenly quiet. He felt a body behind his.
An arm wrapped itself around his shoulders as a voice asked quietly, “What makes you think you’re worthy enough to be invited into my bed?”
He opened his eyes; Vanessa was kneeling behind him; if he leaned further back his head would be in her lap. All he could think was, Don’t move, don’t startle her.
He looked into her eyes.
“I’m not,” he said, resting against her thighs, “That’s why it’s terrifying.”
He closed his eyes again, her laughter at his honesty shaking his body.
©2010 VL Sheridan
One of the others, her eyes flirting, asked, “Who would you have sex with from this class if you could?”
He moved away from her. Why did women think that being vulgar was a mark of sexual confidence?
“It would be extremely inappropriate to be intimate with one of my students.”
He reclined on his elbows, letting the sun hit his face.
"But if you could,” she insisted, stalking him, “who would you pick?”
He ignored her and listened to the chattering of the others.
A voice said, “Well, if I had a choice, I’d pick Vanessa.”
He smiled at the thought.
“I think making love to Vanessa would be a terrifying experience, like a praying mantis being devoured by its mate” he said to no one in particular.
He was enjoying the sun when he realized it was suddenly quiet. He felt a body behind his.
An arm wrapped itself around his shoulders as a voice asked quietly, “What makes you think you’re worthy enough to be invited into my bed?”
He opened his eyes; Vanessa was kneeling behind him; if he leaned further back his head would be in her lap. All he could think was, Don’t move, don’t startle her.
He looked into her eyes.
“I’m not,” he said, resting against her thighs, “That’s why it’s terrifying.”
He closed his eyes again, her laughter at his honesty shaking his body.
©2010 VL Sheridan
The Salsa Queen of Princeton
“Grandma thinks you’re an asshole.”
I looked at my 12 year old daughter; what was worse, being told my mother continues to consider me the village idiot, or that my daughter needs to remind me of this fact?
"She says you’re stupid for going to a dance class. She says you’re wasting your time looking to meet someone because you always pick losers anyway.”
My mother has never forgiven me for being born without a penis. I tried to think of an answer that didn’t sound defensive.
“I like to dance. It makes me feel good about myself. Going out one night a week isn’t selfish.”
The single mother’s albatross around the neck, putting herself first.
“I go out for me, not necessarily to meet someone.”
“Yea, but if you met someone he could help you pay the bills,” chimed in my 15 year old son. “It would be nice I we could afford to have cable TV, internet connection, a better cell phone plan.”
How comforting to realize my son viewed relationships for their financial possibilities. I guess I should just settle on the candidate that would bring about the best economic reform.
“You’re a romantic” I said to him.
“No,” he replied, “I’m a realist. Not having cable sucks. We live like the Amish, no cable, no internet. More money makes life easier. You need a boyfriend.”
Why I was going to this class, I thought on the ride into work? I never meet anyone at these things; I join a book club and its ten women and one retired man, a cooking class and there’s more estrogen than tarragon in the room. The idea of meeting someone new seemed possible when my marriage first ended, but now, ten years later, the chances seem slim to none. I didn’t want to give up hope, but was it asking too much to meet a man you could have an adult conversation with? When does being realistic about your chances to meet someone decent turn into giving up hope and settling for someone who bathes on a regular basis?
Hope. Love is important in life, but hope is essential. Hope is what gets you out of bed in the morning, what comforts you before you fall asleep at night. It drives you through the day, whether it’s a mundane hope of “I hope I get to work on time”, to something akin to a profound prayer, “I hope I’m not screwing up my kids’ lives”.
When Pandora finally gave into temptation and opened the box that released all the evils into the world, she slammed the lid shut before hope flew away. Sometimes hope is all we have left. When we loose hope do we loose everything? Is there any point in going on without hope?
As 5:00 pm drew near my confidence began to wane like the setting sun. Why was I going to this class? I loved to dance, but my previous experiences with Community Education dance classes hadn’t been very enjoyable. The tango class last spring made me uncomfortable. Tango is full of machismo control with the man moving the woman around, she having to wait for him to initiate the movement. It brought back feelings of being trapped in a relationship with a controlling and abusive husband. Would a salsa class be better or a variation on a theme I didn’t want to repeat?
I drove home, made dinner for the kids, took a shower and changed into an appropriate outfit for the evening, half way between confident and trying too hard. The class began at 7:30 at the community center in town. My mother would arrive at 6:30 to watch the kids for me; that would give me plenty of time to drive back and find a place to park.
"You look pretty,” my youngest said, “I like that dress. Those earrings are pretty. Can I have them when you die?”
My son wants me to marry to increase our economic possibilities, my older daughter contradicts everything I say, and my youngest daughter is taking inventory of my possessions.
“When I’m dead you and your brother and sister can fight over all of my stuff. I’m not promising anything to anyone.”
“TSK.”
My mother had arrived and was voicing her usual disapproval of the way I expressed myself around my children. Forty seven years of mutual disappointment.
“Will you be late coming home; I don’t like to drive home when it’s late?”
“No, the class ends at 9:30, so I should be home by 10:00. Unless I meet someone.”
“TSK”.
That was her “how presumptuous” click. My mother could say more with a click of her tongue than any great orator.
“Remember,” my son called from his room, “It would be nice to have cable.”
The drive took less time than during the morning commute, so I arrived at the community center with way too much time to spare. This isn’t good; I thought to myself, I’ll only start psyching myself out. I sat in my car, and wondered who was all ready inside.
Well, you could always go in and find out , instead of sitting out here in your car noticing that your shoes are a little too tight and your skirt is a little too short, wondering why you put yourself through this. It’s just as easy to stay at home at night, working a full time job and raising three kids on your own, that’s a long day, no one would blame you if all you did was sit on the couch. Yes, I said, interrupting myself, someone would blame me. Hope. Hope would blame me for not trying just once more.
I opened the car door and made my way towards the building. I heard music through an open window; saw people milling about the dance floor. I opened the door, took a deep breath and went in. We went in; me and Hope.
©2008 VL Sheridan
I looked at my 12 year old daughter; what was worse, being told my mother continues to consider me the village idiot, or that my daughter needs to remind me of this fact?
"She says you’re stupid for going to a dance class. She says you’re wasting your time looking to meet someone because you always pick losers anyway.”
My mother has never forgiven me for being born without a penis. I tried to think of an answer that didn’t sound defensive.
“I like to dance. It makes me feel good about myself. Going out one night a week isn’t selfish.”
The single mother’s albatross around the neck, putting herself first.
“I go out for me, not necessarily to meet someone.”
“Yea, but if you met someone he could help you pay the bills,” chimed in my 15 year old son. “It would be nice I we could afford to have cable TV, internet connection, a better cell phone plan.”
How comforting to realize my son viewed relationships for their financial possibilities. I guess I should just settle on the candidate that would bring about the best economic reform.
“You’re a romantic” I said to him.
“No,” he replied, “I’m a realist. Not having cable sucks. We live like the Amish, no cable, no internet. More money makes life easier. You need a boyfriend.”
Why I was going to this class, I thought on the ride into work? I never meet anyone at these things; I join a book club and its ten women and one retired man, a cooking class and there’s more estrogen than tarragon in the room. The idea of meeting someone new seemed possible when my marriage first ended, but now, ten years later, the chances seem slim to none. I didn’t want to give up hope, but was it asking too much to meet a man you could have an adult conversation with? When does being realistic about your chances to meet someone decent turn into giving up hope and settling for someone who bathes on a regular basis?
Hope. Love is important in life, but hope is essential. Hope is what gets you out of bed in the morning, what comforts you before you fall asleep at night. It drives you through the day, whether it’s a mundane hope of “I hope I get to work on time”, to something akin to a profound prayer, “I hope I’m not screwing up my kids’ lives”.
When Pandora finally gave into temptation and opened the box that released all the evils into the world, she slammed the lid shut before hope flew away. Sometimes hope is all we have left. When we loose hope do we loose everything? Is there any point in going on without hope?
As 5:00 pm drew near my confidence began to wane like the setting sun. Why was I going to this class? I loved to dance, but my previous experiences with Community Education dance classes hadn’t been very enjoyable. The tango class last spring made me uncomfortable. Tango is full of machismo control with the man moving the woman around, she having to wait for him to initiate the movement. It brought back feelings of being trapped in a relationship with a controlling and abusive husband. Would a salsa class be better or a variation on a theme I didn’t want to repeat?
I drove home, made dinner for the kids, took a shower and changed into an appropriate outfit for the evening, half way between confident and trying too hard. The class began at 7:30 at the community center in town. My mother would arrive at 6:30 to watch the kids for me; that would give me plenty of time to drive back and find a place to park.
"You look pretty,” my youngest said, “I like that dress. Those earrings are pretty. Can I have them when you die?”
My son wants me to marry to increase our economic possibilities, my older daughter contradicts everything I say, and my youngest daughter is taking inventory of my possessions.
“When I’m dead you and your brother and sister can fight over all of my stuff. I’m not promising anything to anyone.”
“TSK.”
My mother had arrived and was voicing her usual disapproval of the way I expressed myself around my children. Forty seven years of mutual disappointment.
“Will you be late coming home; I don’t like to drive home when it’s late?”
“No, the class ends at 9:30, so I should be home by 10:00. Unless I meet someone.”
“TSK”.
That was her “how presumptuous” click. My mother could say more with a click of her tongue than any great orator.
“Remember,” my son called from his room, “It would be nice to have cable.”
The drive took less time than during the morning commute, so I arrived at the community center with way too much time to spare. This isn’t good; I thought to myself, I’ll only start psyching myself out. I sat in my car, and wondered who was all ready inside.
Well, you could always go in and find out , instead of sitting out here in your car noticing that your shoes are a little too tight and your skirt is a little too short, wondering why you put yourself through this. It’s just as easy to stay at home at night, working a full time job and raising three kids on your own, that’s a long day, no one would blame you if all you did was sit on the couch. Yes, I said, interrupting myself, someone would blame me. Hope. Hope would blame me for not trying just once more.
I opened the car door and made my way towards the building. I heard music through an open window; saw people milling about the dance floor. I opened the door, took a deep breath and went in. We went in; me and Hope.
©2008 VL Sheridan
Acorns
The night we met you drunkenly dumped a fistful of acorns into my lap.
“I wish these were emeralds.”
Twenty years, three kids, two visits to rehab and one extra marital affair later we sit in a restaurant. You push a small box across the table towards me.
“I wish these were acorns,” you say softly.
Emeralds encircle a band of gold. I slip the ring on my finger. Struggling to find the right words, the only emotion I feel is tired. Tired of apologies. Tired of fighting. Tired of disappointment.
Is that life? Learning to live with the disappointment? I know I should say thank you, or I love you, but I don’t feel any of those things. I glance at you and see so many things in your eyes. Fear, resentment, hope.
Hope? For what? For what we were? For what we wanted to be? For the chance that maybe it will get better? Maybe true love is not great passion or constant laughter and good times. Perhaps true love is accepting that no matter how imperfect your mate is, they need to love you, and are grateful for the love they receive from you.
I slip my foot out of my shoe and let my toes gently caress your ankle. A smile forms on your lips.
“I’ll ask for the check.”
You reach for my hand, the emeralds glinting in the candlelight.
©2009 VL Sheridan
“I wish these were emeralds.”
Twenty years, three kids, two visits to rehab and one extra marital affair later we sit in a restaurant. You push a small box across the table towards me.
“I wish these were acorns,” you say softly.
Emeralds encircle a band of gold. I slip the ring on my finger. Struggling to find the right words, the only emotion I feel is tired. Tired of apologies. Tired of fighting. Tired of disappointment.
Is that life? Learning to live with the disappointment? I know I should say thank you, or I love you, but I don’t feel any of those things. I glance at you and see so many things in your eyes. Fear, resentment, hope.
Hope? For what? For what we were? For what we wanted to be? For the chance that maybe it will get better? Maybe true love is not great passion or constant laughter and good times. Perhaps true love is accepting that no matter how imperfect your mate is, they need to love you, and are grateful for the love they receive from you.
I slip my foot out of my shoe and let my toes gently caress your ankle. A smile forms on your lips.
“I’ll ask for the check.”
You reach for my hand, the emeralds glinting in the candlelight.
©2009 VL Sheridan
Harness
“Do I have to?"
“You can’t put it off any longer."
“It’s stupid. None of my friends do."
The tension is rising between us. “I’m not mother to all your friends. I’m mother to you. You’re getting too big and told old to be without one."
Cursing under her breath, she slips her arms through the straps and lets me hook the back. Pulling and stretching, she whines, “I can’t breathe, I hate this."
“I couldn’t wait for my first one."
She mumbles under her breath some more, pulls her shirt over her head and stalks
out of the room, ignoring him as he enters.
“Problem?"
“Her first bra. She’s not happy."
His face falls. “But she’s so young."
“She’s also very developed for her age."
“Now boys will notice her."
“Yes. Sorry."
He sighs. “I feel like I should call your father and apologize."
I laugh. “You should."
“You can’t put it off any longer."
“It’s stupid. None of my friends do."
The tension is rising between us. “I’m not mother to all your friends. I’m mother to you. You’re getting too big and told old to be without one."
Cursing under her breath, she slips her arms through the straps and lets me hook the back. Pulling and stretching, she whines, “I can’t breathe, I hate this."
“I couldn’t wait for my first one."
She mumbles under her breath some more, pulls her shirt over her head and stalks
out of the room, ignoring him as he enters.
“Problem?"
“Her first bra. She’s not happy."
His face falls. “But she’s so young."
“She’s also very developed for her age."
“Now boys will notice her."
“Yes. Sorry."
He sighs. “I feel like I should call your father and apologize."
I laugh. “You should."
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