Creative Writing, Fiction, Life

Maybe She’s You

There once was a woman who was lonely. She had given up the pain which at one time promised happiness. Sometimes those scars from her past would bleed with tears. To help ease the loneliness, she would close her eyes and drift off into a world of comforting thoughts.

In the secure darkness, she painted sounds of the ocean, crashing waves, rippling water. Colors of aqua, green, blue, cloudless skies and the smell of salt filtered through her senses. The thought of sinking under water weightless, the outside sounds muffled, calming colors… With these thoughts a smile would pierce her lips. Instantly her body warmed with happy tingles that grew goose bumps on her arms.

There were also thoughts of the smell of skin, intimate thoughts of cheek to cheek, lips barely touching an ear, and drowning in the scent of a man. A foreign embrace, a kiss pulled away seeking a hunter. Come after me, the lips would call. The tracing of fingers over her body, smooth and slow… again would send frustrating tingles through her body, but the feeling alone was quite welcome. She often welcomed the thoughts of sex for not having sex made her detail all the intricacies of sex mankind never remembers in the heat and passion of it all. She felt almost blessed to be fruitless for so long, but more often, not.

There was the sound of laughter, the voice of her son, and her mother calling her name that in an instant made her feel happy. The giggle of her best friend, the gentle hug from her brother, messages and emails from her family and friends made her feel comforted. Memories of eventful mischievousness’ made her smile or laugh out loud. And secret dance offs in the privacy of her room were all too often not out of the ordinary. These things made her feel not so lonely.

The funny thing about thoughts, the woman would recall to herself, is that they are only thoughts. They come and go in an instant. The woman was right and again she would feel lonely. She thought it a cruel gift to have such a fertile imagination. She would cry and then laugh at herself in her moments of weakness. Stupidness, she gaffed and proceeded to find things to fill up her time.

Creative Writing, Fiction, Life

Little Things

The sun glared across her brown body laying against the white sand. He, lying next to her counted the sporadic dark spots on her shoulders and neck. There were nine altogether, six on her shoulders and three on her neck.

“Stop staring at me.”

“How would you know I’m staring at you”, he replied.

“Because I can feel your eyes pressing on me harder than the sun”, she smiles and opened one squinted eye. She rolled onto her side to face him. He thought to himself, she’s so beautiful. “I can tell when you’re staring at me.”

“Oh yeah,” he snickered.

“Yeah,” she flirted, tapping his nose with her fingers, wearing a seductive grin. “It’s this sixth sense I have with you.”

“Only with me,” he asked. She leaned forward and kissed him softly.

“No, not only with you,” she smiled. He giggled and flicked sand at her as she rolled onto her back. He thought to himself, I know it’s not only with me. He hated feeling insecure about her feelings for him. When he was around her, he found himself intimidated and unsure of his words and actions.

“Let it go,” she said without movement. He turned his gaze towards the ocean afraid she was staring right through him. He pressed the bits of sand between his fingers rolling them together as he watched the waves form and crash… form and crash… repeating its cycle. He noticed each wave was different, smaller or larger than the next, breaking at different times.

“We lay out here any longer, we’re closer to becoming cancer candidates,” he said while lying back down.

“Even cancer has the right to live,” She said softly.

He huffed, “Well, that’s one way to look at it.” They lay there for awhile and she began to feel lonely for him. She slid her hand across the sand and reached for his. He squeezed her hand then rolled his head over to look at her. He said, “I love you.” She didn’t return the sentiment.

“I’m not uncomfortable with saying it,” she knew he was waiting for her to say the same words back, “I think I said it when I reached for your hand.” He smiled and squeezed her hand again. “Sometimes moments don’t need to be caught in photographs and sometimes words don’t need to be said to express emotion.” He laughed loud and hard and she looked at him puzzled. What’s so funny, she thought.

“What are you today, the Dali Lama or something?”  He continued laughing. She thought about what she had said and then joined him, laughing out loud.

Creative Writing, Fiction, Life

The Edge of a Cliff

It was only for a second, perhaps a split second, but the moment lingered on in slow motion forever. I saw my hand clenched into a fist. My arm moving forward. I saw my fist make solid contact with her nose. Her head jilted back. With her eyes closed, she reached for her face. Blood began to run out from her left nostril. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She opened her big brown eyes, looked at her blood now on her finger tips. Then she looked at me. She didn’t look confused. She looked calm and collected. So it took me by surprise that she would ball up her fist, bend her arm back, and throw a punch right back at me.

But she never landed that punch. Not in the way I hit her. Truth is: I never hit her. I wanted to… I guess. I felt some type of way after she stated in a sympathetic tone, “I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore.” That’s when I imagined punching the shit out of her nose. It was instinctive. I couldn’t help it. It just came to me, but it didn’t happen in reality. Instead, I was the one being gutted. She was standing over me, punching me over and over and over again. My face swollen, my cheeks gashed, and blood streaming from my nose; I was silenced. I felt the punches and it stung, but the pain would drift away as I stared up at her beautiful face. Her dark long hair sliding over her shoulders with a solemn look on her face… And I loved staring at her. I loved staring at her so much, I think I could’ve stayed there taking the punches like a champ if I could just be with her always, but in her one statement, it was worse. This pain was going to be permanent; a permanent fucking punch in the face.

I told her I couldn’t look at her and made my way to the shower. You probably think I went to take a shower because I was crying. Well, hell yeah I was crying. I was fucking balling. It was the worst pain I had ever felt. I wanted to crawl into the fetal position and stay in bed, but I wasn’t going to let her see me that low. So I took a shower, but she still came in to check on me. And I was happy to have her near me seeing her silhouette on the other side of the shower curtain.

“Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.”

“I can hear you crying.”

“Well, I’m fucking hurting. My heart is breaking.”

“Oh… I didn’t know you were hurting that much. I just thought you were angry. I never said I wanted us to break up. I told you that because I want us to work on us.”

“Do you remember what today is?” Silence. “It’s my fucking birthday.”

“Oh shit! I’m so sorry, babe.” I watched her silhouette as she stripped off her clothes and entered the shower. She came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist. “Babe, I’m sorry. I’m a bitch. I’m an asshole. I forgot. I forgot.” She kissed my back, pressed her body up against me, and held me tight. I realized it wasn’t the end of the world, it was just the edge of a cliff. I turned around to face her, and held her close to me. As the warm water hit my back with her face pressed against my chest, I felt a soothing feeling. Hope.

For two years I hoped. Even though I told her I didn’t want to work at it anymore and ended up dating multiple women. Even though I began a somewhat serious relationship and she ended up meeting someone that eventually became somewhat serious too… I still hoped. Sure we were seeing other people, but there were a few times over the two years that we slipped up and I slipped into her. Her sex was an aphrodisiac for me. I lost myself inside of her, feeling her body, and lingering in her scent… vanilla and lavender; the scent of hope. The best sex we had during this time was when I walked two miles in the middle of a tropical storm to get to her.
I remember answering my phone, “Hey, what’s up?”

“I hate to bother you, but I’m horny.” She took a long deep breath.

“Oh really?” Inside I was ecstatic.

“Yeah… But I know it’s storming so can we just talk it out?”

“I’m coming over.” She laughed. I just have to say, she had the sexiest laugh I had ever heard.

“Whatever.”

“I’m serious.”

“Didn’t you say, your roommate borrowed your car for the night?”

“Yeah. I’ll walk. It’s only 2 miles and it’s warm out.”

“Um… Aside from the Hurricane!” Her voice raised.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just wind and a little bit of rain.”

“No…,” I cut her off and hung up on her. Next thing, I was at her door. She opened the door and stepped inside quickly. I shut the door behind me and then turned around to grab her. She looked amazed as I took her face into my hands and pressed my lips hard against hers. At that moment, it was worth every step through the rain, the wind, the harassment I received from my friends when they found out what I did to get laid… laid by her. We made love and we slept through the night together. In the morning she climbed on top of me and we made love again. I remember her riding me facing the opposite direction. She looked over her shoulder at me and it was so hot. She was so hot. I fucking loved her.

Life

39 and a ramble

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39 years old. Age is just a number? But it isn’t. It truly is a definition of how much you’ve experienced of life. By now, I should be a bit wiser, a bit more patient with life, a bit less patient with people, more open minded with the world, less open minded with the way the world should function, and on and on and on…

My body has changed. A steady decline as knowingly comes with age. No matter how hard I work out or how healthy I eat, it’s still a struggle, if not mentally, most certainly physically. To feel strong is the goal for the present and the future, but to say at 39 years or older, I’m in the best shape of my life? No. Not just because I’m literally not in the best shape of my life, but because no… I humbly resign the best shape of my life to when I was playing sports in highschool or running miles upon miles at 23 years old and getting stronger with every step. It is a sad yet solemn defeat, but with every year, I’ll go on fighting the inevitable.

A lot of self reflection has taken place in the last few years, much of which fits the typical clichés of being a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend, and more. For a long time, I wanted to be different, unique, but as I’ve experienced life, being relatable and sharing those experiences through laughter and tears has been a phenomenal teaching lesson in my life. The human connection in all it’s many forms is most powerful. So much to say about it, but I’ll save it for another day.

39 years old and I am abundantly happy. I’m not perfect and I am my own worst critic, but through my own frustration and heartbreak, I’ve learned not to demand so much from an imperfect person. Life and it’s ups and downs. To be abundantly happy, you have to know what the other side of the spectrum would be like. I love my life. Past, present, and so hopeful for the future.

I’m tired as it’s late. I’m going to stop rambling now. This is what happens when you get older.