Shiny gym floors became the backdrop of scattered teenagers distracted from the goal of learning choreographed steps that one Saturday afternoon. Teachers had separated from the students, the teaching-learning process now scarce. Ren and I had been dancing, drilling our routine, perfecting the rough patches. During a pause of focused work, Ren turns to me and between uneven breaths he comments, "I haven't seen Jane in a while. Do you know where she is?"
His face bore the features of endearing worry. Worst case scenarios flashed through my mind like a nightmare. The first idea of her hiding place took me straight to the mother's room on the east side.
Ren was waiting when I came out empty handed. "Not in there?"
I shook my head.
From east to west, we searched every room, peering into dark rooms and checking behind furniture. Ren's face was quiet and serious, a calm facade during the storm. On our way off the pitch black stage, he tripped down the few carpeted stairs to break my concentration with a smile. I helped him up, laughing without restraint. Then again in silence, we shared a grin against dark surroundings.
We found her on the west side, huddled on the floor next to Kerrie. Once we had gotten close, we heard her quiet sobbing through the door. Harsh afternoon light came through the multiple windows in the room, casting rectangles of golden warmth across the floor. Thank goodness she wasn't alone. Ren and I went to her, shifting her head into my lap, Ren draped his arm over her side to hold her hand, and Kerri sat cross legged on my right. As she cried, my heart ached and my eyes stung. I loved her so much. To my left, I saw a mirrored look of pained anguish, because of this girl laid across our laps. Silence was gratefully interrupted by Kerrie's cheerful topic of rings and gay uncles. Conversation continued mainly between her and Jane, occasionally I would attribute a phrase more than the smile that cut across my sorrow. Ren's face stayed stoically solemn, almost removed, but I knew his thoughts stayed within that room.
In hopes of lifting her spirits, we took her to the neighboring duck pond. Chasing the ducks was good for her smile and the fresh air dried her tears.
Back in the gym, a family tree was crafted, from me to grandchild. Each branch bore scandal, dramatics, and almost always multiple marriages and illegitimate children. Jane was my daughter, divorced once, now married to Ren--"the loving husband" he claimed proudly, taking her hip--after an affair with his brother, Peter, which beget Kerrie. From that stemmed many other composed relations with playful stories to back them. In her face the unfortunate affair was temporarily forgotten and I was glad that our fake family take away that pain, if only for a moment.
April 24, 2012
The Game of Deceit (II)
(Part 1: http://life-passion-love.blogspot.com/2012/03/game-of-deceit-i.html)
"Mafias, awaken."
I saw two other lovely faces rise with cunning grins and Peter's face laughed at the bunch. Three clever determined girls one with purpose, one mindset.
"Now, who do you want to kill?"
Almost all at once, sharp fingers focused on Jeremy, the curly blonde with a mouth weak against smiles.
Peter's eyebrows rose at the quickness of our unified decision.
"Mafia, go back to sleep."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Let's keep dancing."
"At least let me look at it, hold still." I stepped closer to inspect the damage. Ren's nose looked almost fine. No reddness, no swelling, no bruises, but then a very small trickle of red began to flow towards his lips. My hands fled to cover my mouth.
"What?"
"I'm so sorry!" I repeated. "You're bleeding. Just a little bit."
"Really?"
My only concern at that point was getting something cold for his nose. "Yeah, come 'ere." I took him by the hand to where my water bottle lay. Nothing was still cold after sitting in the grass for a few hours. "Do you know anywhere where there'd be ice?" I asked to nobody in particular.
"Nope."
"Lena, I'm fine. I don't need any ice."
"Well, at least go to the bathroom, so you can run water over it or something."
"Okay, whatever you say," he said, putting his arm around me. "Let's go."
I paced back and forth inside that cramped rec center for probably only two or three minutes, but everytime I glaced at the clock, it seemed as if the second hand was going against the tide. The drinking fountain was a good distraction for a handful of seconds. Then I debated sitting down, but silly nerves kept me from staying in one spot.
"Ren, I'm so sorry," I again repeated as he came out.
"It's okay, Lena, really."
"It's just that I don't usually hurt people."
He laughed. "Well, that's comforting to know."
"Mafias, awaken."
I saw two other lovely faces rise with cunning grins and Peter's face laughed at the bunch. Three clever determined girls one with purpose, one mindset.
"Now, who do you want to kill?"
Almost all at once, sharp fingers focused on Jeremy, the curly blonde with a mouth weak against smiles.
Peter's eyebrows rose at the quickness of our unified decision.
"Mafia, go back to sleep."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Let's keep dancing."
"At least let me look at it, hold still." I stepped closer to inspect the damage. Ren's nose looked almost fine. No reddness, no swelling, no bruises, but then a very small trickle of red began to flow towards his lips. My hands fled to cover my mouth.
"What?"
"I'm so sorry!" I repeated. "You're bleeding. Just a little bit."
"Really?"
My only concern at that point was getting something cold for his nose. "Yeah, come 'ere." I took him by the hand to where my water bottle lay. Nothing was still cold after sitting in the grass for a few hours. "Do you know anywhere where there'd be ice?" I asked to nobody in particular.
"Nope."
"Lena, I'm fine. I don't need any ice."
"Well, at least go to the bathroom, so you can run water over it or something."
"Okay, whatever you say," he said, putting his arm around me. "Let's go."
I paced back and forth inside that cramped rec center for probably only two or three minutes, but everytime I glaced at the clock, it seemed as if the second hand was going against the tide. The drinking fountain was a good distraction for a handful of seconds. Then I debated sitting down, but silly nerves kept me from staying in one spot.
"Ren, I'm so sorry," I again repeated as he came out.
"It's okay, Lena, really."
"It's just that I don't usually hurt people."
He laughed. "Well, that's comforting to know."
April 5, 2012
Grasping Fate
I enjoy entertaining myself my noticing features of those who walk by me in the hallways, for their line of attention never seems to catch in tandem with mine. Some days I would indulge in the variation of dimples, or the form of a nose against the shape of faces. Then there were days when daring eyes would tempt others to look back at me. I was curious to their reaction, to measure their audacity to acknowledge a stranger. Glances quickly darted back away when found caught with mine. Connection between pairs of eyes read deeper than seconds of inconspicuous relation; his blue eyes against mine proved that clear to me. As we came closer to passing, unashamed curiosity persisted when I wavered in shyness. One moment had deemed him admirable.
Weeks and months passed with similar quiet exchanges staged in the same scene as orgin predicted. Among familiar figures, he was the only one recognizable. A school year ended without a peak of curiosity to inspire action, so his identity remained unknown to me. A fleeting thought of regret was the last temptation of his pretense I expected him to draw from me.
Another year of school herded acquaintance under one roof for my final year. In coincidence blue and brown collided within variation of their first meeting, still with quietness and subtle curiosity wrought by routine.
Spread across a plain, blue couch, buried in a book was the first time I heard his voice. He stood over me, but no where near me. He conversed with the boys around me as I saw him through the corners of my eyes between paragraphs. Without the expectation of walking, his prolonged distant closeness quickened my pulse. I smiled at the predicability of my body's raised adrenaline. Only when he left, were direct acknowledgement ensued between us. From conversation, I found that we were equal in age and curiosity peaked.
To know a name was my desire, to label one among many insignificant others without. This apitite was satisfied after the multiple passings of a month, I watched and waited for the ideal moment to align with my guts.
However, a new hunger grew from the knowledge of his name. I wanted to know him, to see beyond what others saw, what I had seen for the past year. The idea of giving him my number was then ignited. Excuses formed themselves through trite obstacles like "how would I even slip it to him?" Several scraps of paper carried a note containing my number, all created in efforts to coax myself into the reality of giving it to him.
There was no significance to the day my courage was significant. The ground between he and I was clear, he smiled when I came toward him, taking out his headphones for my words. Instead my actions were silent, holding out the folded paper, then walking away after he took it. Fate no longer weighed me down, for I had given it to another.
Weeks and months passed with similar quiet exchanges staged in the same scene as orgin predicted. Among familiar figures, he was the only one recognizable. A school year ended without a peak of curiosity to inspire action, so his identity remained unknown to me. A fleeting thought of regret was the last temptation of his pretense I expected him to draw from me.
Another year of school herded acquaintance under one roof for my final year. In coincidence blue and brown collided within variation of their first meeting, still with quietness and subtle curiosity wrought by routine.
Spread across a plain, blue couch, buried in a book was the first time I heard his voice. He stood over me, but no where near me. He conversed with the boys around me as I saw him through the corners of my eyes between paragraphs. Without the expectation of walking, his prolonged distant closeness quickened my pulse. I smiled at the predicability of my body's raised adrenaline. Only when he left, were direct acknowledgement ensued between us. From conversation, I found that we were equal in age and curiosity peaked.
To know a name was my desire, to label one among many insignificant others without. This apitite was satisfied after the multiple passings of a month, I watched and waited for the ideal moment to align with my guts.
However, a new hunger grew from the knowledge of his name. I wanted to know him, to see beyond what others saw, what I had seen for the past year. The idea of giving him my number was then ignited. Excuses formed themselves through trite obstacles like "how would I even slip it to him?" Several scraps of paper carried a note containing my number, all created in efforts to coax myself into the reality of giving it to him.
There was no significance to the day my courage was significant. The ground between he and I was clear, he smiled when I came toward him, taking out his headphones for my words. Instead my actions were silent, holding out the folded paper, then walking away after he took it. Fate no longer weighed me down, for I had given it to another.
March 29, 2012
A Game Called Love
I don't like this game called love. There is leading, following, clash of differences, union of similarities, all played with the advantage to oneself, to gain a feeling, some kind of achievement. A chance encounter is a whirling beginning, plunging into pros and cons, curiosity and wanting that unknown to become solid, palpable. The prize of the chase is to gain that solidity, untrue solidity. Loose mouths and words attest to fictitious promise unworthy of prolonged dedication.
Dive in and test the waters, because they will carry you away with the current, intentions that are not your own, those of a man, a boy. A femme may try to direct the flow, so subtly, never to cause alarm and never to be traced. Drastic actions against strong courses cause rejection, tossed from its enveloping embrace. I don't like this helplessness.
Listen to his words, take his hand, they fill. I promise, they will. The taste is sweet and on the feigned grounds crafted by mutual affection is not as lasting as pavement. His is a game of gain, you are his as a temporary attachment, because his hand in yours is or will be a roadblock. The future is to be thought about and strings to pull him back are too heavy to manage.
It is not the game which is love. I long for the independent will of a man to choose. Decisive are his words and sure his vision. Love is a declaration, not an utterance, so thrust towards me the feelings of your heart. I am a choice, not a subject of indecision.
Dive in and test the waters, because they will carry you away with the current, intentions that are not your own, those of a man, a boy. A femme may try to direct the flow, so subtly, never to cause alarm and never to be traced. Drastic actions against strong courses cause rejection, tossed from its enveloping embrace. I don't like this helplessness.
Listen to his words, take his hand, they fill. I promise, they will. The taste is sweet and on the feigned grounds crafted by mutual affection is not as lasting as pavement. His is a game of gain, you are his as a temporary attachment, because his hand in yours is or will be a roadblock. The future is to be thought about and strings to pull him back are too heavy to manage.
It is not the game which is love. I long for the independent will of a man to choose. Decisive are his words and sure his vision. Love is a declaration, not an utterance, so thrust towards me the feelings of your heart. I am a choice, not a subject of indecision.
March 12, 2012
The Ring (I)
Glittering rays of sunlight hit the chandelier above the table just perfectly so that a geometric patter of triangles and diamonds arranged themselves over the polished dark cherry wood of the dinning room table just before breakfast. Grace always stumbled down the stairs at seven in her robe to brew her coffee and stare out the window to come up with another agenda for the day. Without her husband she could choose each activity without the consultation of another opinion, the possibilities were as the limits of her imagination.
She would then hear a whistle from the kitchen and produce a breakfast of eggs, or bagels, or pancakes, or waffles, or whatever classic American breakfast she had the ingredients for. Then after plating her food, she would take pen and paper, and bring it all to the table so she could write our a list for the day. Grace stared into her cup of coffee as she brainstormed. She had already worked in various coffee chains to breathe in the earthy aroma for 7 hours a day. She had already handmade mugs, starting with clay and molding figures on the potter's wheel for hours to perfect the shape of an elegant mug. She had already gone to cooking school for four months to learn all she could about American cuisine as well as French. The painting on the wall was from when she experimented with different paint types and covered canvas after canvas with figures and scenes. All the rooms in her house had been painted; she spent a week and half on that, browsing Home Depot for colors and finishes to perfectly correlated with the "mood" of each room.
Out the window was a disgraceful piece of lawn, sprinkled with dandelion weeds, and bordered with untamed bushes. The only redeeming element was a vibrant lime tree that always provided fruit in the early months of summer and bloomed beautifully in the spring. That would be her next project: to clean up the lawn, plant a garden for fresh vegetables and fruits, then put in a few flowers. She could even purchase some plants to dry and crush for new scents in her perfume line she sold to a friend in Kansas.
She would then hear a whistle from the kitchen and produce a breakfast of eggs, or bagels, or pancakes, or waffles, or whatever classic American breakfast she had the ingredients for. Then after plating her food, she would take pen and paper, and bring it all to the table so she could write our a list for the day. Grace stared into her cup of coffee as she brainstormed. She had already worked in various coffee chains to breathe in the earthy aroma for 7 hours a day. She had already handmade mugs, starting with clay and molding figures on the potter's wheel for hours to perfect the shape of an elegant mug. She had already gone to cooking school for four months to learn all she could about American cuisine as well as French. The painting on the wall was from when she experimented with different paint types and covered canvas after canvas with figures and scenes. All the rooms in her house had been painted; she spent a week and half on that, browsing Home Depot for colors and finishes to perfectly correlated with the "mood" of each room.
Out the window was a disgraceful piece of lawn, sprinkled with dandelion weeds, and bordered with untamed bushes. The only redeeming element was a vibrant lime tree that always provided fruit in the early months of summer and bloomed beautifully in the spring. That would be her next project: to clean up the lawn, plant a garden for fresh vegetables and fruits, then put in a few flowers. She could even purchase some plants to dry and crush for new scents in her perfume line she sold to a friend in Kansas.
March 9, 2012
Overestimated Perfection (III)
(Part 2: http://life-passion-love.blogspot.com/2012/03/overestimated-perfection-ii.html)
Careful contemplation bore these words: "I was married when I was 19." Why this information flowed from my commonly cautious lips, I couldn't tell you in detail. His presence affected me, not an infection that took over the body, but the mind and the deepest conception of the heart. Confusion of feelings and thoughts blended throughout my being. Only the words of a secret born in the mind caused my conversion, a conversion I had wished to avoid to pair with the transformation of figure and features. To pair this order of impetuous actions and events could cause a destructive poison to lace itself among the blood running through my veins, but I kept talking, "His name was Troy."
After indulgent inflection, I looked up at his face curious of his reaction. The shape of forehead, mouth, eyes, brows, all held the price of my utterances. His reaction wasn't extreme and I half expected him to something unfeeling to renounce the enormity of my reveal.
"Married, hmmm." His lips pressed together as if to hide something maybe, or keep himself from saying something he'd regret. What he would regret, I don't know and would not let myself guess. "So I'm guessing it's safe to say you're not together anymore?"
The shape of my mouth formed something like a grimace and an entertained smile. "No, we're not."
"You were in love with him and he left you, didn't he?"
"Why would you think that?"
"I can see it all over your face."
"Good thing or bad thing?"
"Well, you're beautiful no matter what emotion you express."
I looked away in disgust. "I meant that you could read me so easily."
"In that case, I persist in my answer. I have a talent for understanding the thoughts of others and I think yours are wonderful."
"And so this is where your curiosity is born, I'm guessing?"
"Yes. But enough of me, I owe you for sharing that..." he paused to find appropriate words to form his thought, "piece of your memory."
"Oh yes, the price." I had not thought through the consequence clearly.
Careful contemplation bore these words: "I was married when I was 19." Why this information flowed from my commonly cautious lips, I couldn't tell you in detail. His presence affected me, not an infection that took over the body, but the mind and the deepest conception of the heart. Confusion of feelings and thoughts blended throughout my being. Only the words of a secret born in the mind caused my conversion, a conversion I had wished to avoid to pair with the transformation of figure and features. To pair this order of impetuous actions and events could cause a destructive poison to lace itself among the blood running through my veins, but I kept talking, "His name was Troy."
After indulgent inflection, I looked up at his face curious of his reaction. The shape of forehead, mouth, eyes, brows, all held the price of my utterances. His reaction wasn't extreme and I half expected him to something unfeeling to renounce the enormity of my reveal.
"Married, hmmm." His lips pressed together as if to hide something maybe, or keep himself from saying something he'd regret. What he would regret, I don't know and would not let myself guess. "So I'm guessing it's safe to say you're not together anymore?"
The shape of my mouth formed something like a grimace and an entertained smile. "No, we're not."
"You were in love with him and he left you, didn't he?"
"Why would you think that?"
"I can see it all over your face."
"Good thing or bad thing?"
"Well, you're beautiful no matter what emotion you express."
I looked away in disgust. "I meant that you could read me so easily."
"In that case, I persist in my answer. I have a talent for understanding the thoughts of others and I think yours are wonderful."
"And so this is where your curiosity is born, I'm guessing?"
"Yes. But enough of me, I owe you for sharing that..." he paused to find appropriate words to form his thought, "piece of your memory."
"Oh yes, the price." I had not thought through the consequence clearly.
March 6, 2012
The Game of Deceit (I)
We sat in a circle, facing each other, though we were not all clearly visible to one another. We were all acquainted and all had chosen roles we were to assume in the next few minutes. Peter stood at our attention to direct our actions, to organize the game. "There are three mafias, two detectives, and one angel," he announced.
On my slip of paper, I had glanced: Mafia.
"What did you get?" Ren turned to ask me.
"What?"
"What did you get?" he increased his volume in his request.
"What?"
"What did you get?!"
"What?"
This time he said it slower. "What. Did. You. Get?"
Then in slowness I repeated, "What?"
He scoffed, finally understanding my ploy.
I laughed. "Ren, why would I tell you?"
"Because I asked."
"Well, that's not a good enough reason. I'm not going to tell you," I stated. "Who are you?"
"Not telling."
"Exactly."
Banter and the blended voice of conversation was interrupted by Peter's plea to start.
"Wait, wait wait! Before we start: If there are three mafias, can they kill each other? I mean, so then they can lead people off their tracks."
"Yeah, especially if there's three of them," Billie echoed.
"No."
"Oh, okay. I'm good now."
"Good." He then reached behind him to relinquish half the lights of the room, setting an enigmatic mood. "One night, in the little town of Princeton, there was a group of people and among them was a mafia..."
Perspective stretched out the figures of those looking over at me, like I was at the bottom of a grave to be mourned over. "Are you okay?"
I tried to emit an affirmative groan from my mouth. Moving hurt.
"Guys give her some room, she needs to be able to breathe."
Shadows slowly retreated from over me.
All I wanted was for someone to hold my hand. Pain would be relieved when the warmth of skin enclosed my fingers. Someone hold my hand! There, the boy with purple laces pulled over his shoes, just like mine, he was my partner. He held my hand before. When we danced he didn't let go for very long, but now I was on the floor, needing that hand more than any of those preceding moments. Hold my hand!
Jane's sister closed in on my right to catch unmoving reaching limbs in protective comfort.
On my left, I raised the other desiring it to be enclosed. He came, and all my thoughts were directed toward that hand. His face was quiet with solemness, brows perched with hurting guilt, eyes watching me without restraint. He was the one who hurt me. Yet, he was the only face that I wanted to see.
On my slip of paper, I had glanced: Mafia.
"What did you get?" Ren turned to ask me.
"What?"
"What did you get?" he increased his volume in his request.
"What?"
"What did you get?!"
"What?"
This time he said it slower. "What. Did. You. Get?"
Then in slowness I repeated, "What?"
He scoffed, finally understanding my ploy.
I laughed. "Ren, why would I tell you?"
"Because I asked."
"Well, that's not a good enough reason. I'm not going to tell you," I stated. "Who are you?"
"Not telling."
"Exactly."
Banter and the blended voice of conversation was interrupted by Peter's plea to start.
"Wait, wait wait! Before we start: If there are three mafias, can they kill each other? I mean, so then they can lead people off their tracks."
"Yeah, especially if there's three of them," Billie echoed.
"No."
"Oh, okay. I'm good now."
"Good." He then reached behind him to relinquish half the lights of the room, setting an enigmatic mood. "One night, in the little town of Princeton, there was a group of people and among them was a mafia..."
Perspective stretched out the figures of those looking over at me, like I was at the bottom of a grave to be mourned over. "Are you okay?"
I tried to emit an affirmative groan from my mouth. Moving hurt.
"Guys give her some room, she needs to be able to breathe."
Shadows slowly retreated from over me.
All I wanted was for someone to hold my hand. Pain would be relieved when the warmth of skin enclosed my fingers. Someone hold my hand! There, the boy with purple laces pulled over his shoes, just like mine, he was my partner. He held my hand before. When we danced he didn't let go for very long, but now I was on the floor, needing that hand more than any of those preceding moments. Hold my hand!
Jane's sister closed in on my right to catch unmoving reaching limbs in protective comfort.
On my left, I raised the other desiring it to be enclosed. He came, and all my thoughts were directed toward that hand. His face was quiet with solemness, brows perched with hurting guilt, eyes watching me without restraint. He was the one who hurt me. Yet, he was the only face that I wanted to see.
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