Month: May 2010

We sat together and yet respectfully apart, her hands on her purse, my left arm draped across the back of the booth and my right on the table, close to hers and aching to feel the warmth of her yet hesitant to move forward. It could have taken only one shot, one reach across the table towards her hands to show her what she meant to me, or to put it simply what she had done. She was responsible for the state I was in but she seemed to be trying her best to walk away without actually standing and walking away, just as I was trying my damndest to get closer to her without physically moving. It is what they call a Mexican standoff, where two parties find themselves in a state of equilibrium and neither is able to gain the upper hand over the other. I was no stranger to the experience and I would not allow myself to be defeated, though, strangely enough, I did not want to defeat. It would take some form of cunning to navigate this field.

“Do you have to leave? It’s been… I can’t explain it, I can’t. It’s been years of wondering who she would be, when I would meet her, what she would be wearing, if she would be older, or younger, and what her words would say when I finally found her, the person who I was meant to spend a life with. The woman whose heart would rest on mine and whose lips would reach for me in the dead of night beneath warm blankets. I will not admit that I have found her but I will simply ask that you stay and allow me one more dance.”

I thought I saw her react but her gaze was steadfast and her hands did not shift, nor her resolve waver.

“No,” she told me. A bullet whizzed past my ear. “I can’t stay here,” and a crippling shot in the leg. I was now limping.

She wasn’t smiling and that frown was not unlike a dagger twisted into my ribs, hurtful as it was. I would have mentally accused her of being a bitch and wanting nothing more than to string me along so that she could just walk away and leave me a pitiful sight to all eyes, so pitiful that there would be no ambulatory aid to raise me from this booth; but, I could not come to that conclusion. It seemed she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince me.

“Why?”

“You’ve been… wonderful, but I can’t. I need to leave. I never should’ve even come out, I don’t know. Please…” and she stands! A grenade had been lobbed and I had no choice but to dash for cover and hold on for dear life.

“This can’t be it. We had a great time, didn’t we? This can’t be it.”

“This is it for us. I hope you find the woman you’ve always wondered about, but it isn’t me. Now, let go of my hand,” she told me, but I did not do so immediately. I was filled with thoughts of holding on, and bringing her back to me by force if necessary. They were the thoughts that occasionally although inevitably appear as strategies for success are considered, but I was not one to fight a dirty war, and so I let go, and meekly sat back, raising my lower lip in defeat and watching as she stood, her hips wonderfully shaped in the strapless dress, its pattern barely recognizable beneath the gaudy lights of the club debauchery. The chestnut locks of her shimmering hair fell across her face as she picked up her purse from the table and in that moment I thought I detected hesitation, a thought which quickly dissipated when her face and faint smile came into view.

“Thank you,” she said, and then fired what would be the final bullet. She walked, not toward the main entrance but toward the side door directly across from the booth where she and I had briefly been the greatest of unions. The dance floor seemed to part for her; or, perhaps, the revelers did so on my account, allowing full view of the beauty whose killer form and deadly eyes waged a decisive battle where the enemy fought bravely and died dishonorably at the feet of an adversary far greater and more admirable than the armies of all the nations on this Earth.

We sat together and yet respectfully apart, her hands on her purse, my left arm draped across the back of the booth and my right on the table, close to hers and aching to feel the warmth of her yet hesitant to move forward. It could have taken only one shot, one reach across the table towards her hands to show her what she meant to me, or to put it simply what she had done. She was responsible for the state I was in but she seemed to be trying her best to walk away without actually standing and walking away, just as I was trying my damndest to get closer to her without physically moving. It is what they call a Mexican standoff, where two parties find themselves in a state of equilibrium and neither is able to gain the upper hand over the other. I was no stranger to the experience and I would not allow myself to be defeated, though, strangely enough, I did not want to defeat. It would take some form of cunning to navigate this field.

“Do you have to leave? It’s been… I can’t explain it, I can’t. It’s been years of wondering who she would be, when I would meet her, what she would be wearing, if she would be older, or younger, and what her words would say when I finally found her, the person who I was meant to spend a life with. The woman whose heart would rest on mine and whose lips would reach for me in the dead of night beneath warm blankets. I will not admit that I have found her but I will simply ask that you stay and allow me one more dance.”

I thought I saw her react but her gaze was steadfast and her hands did not shift, nor her resolve waver.

“No,” she told me. A bullet whizzed past my ear. “I can’t stay here,” and a crippling shot in the leg. I was now limping.

She wasn’t smiling and that frown was not unlike a dagger twisted into my ribs, hurtful as it was. I would have mentally accused her of being a bitch and wanting nothing more than to string me along so that she could just walk away and leave me a pitiful sight to all eyes, so pitiful that there would be no ambulatory aid to raise me from this booth; but, I could not come to that conclusion. It seemed she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince me.

“Why?”

“You’ve been… wonderful, but I can’t. I need to leave. I never should’ve even come out, I don’t know. Please…” and she stands! A grenade had been lobbed and I had no choice but to dash for cover and hold on for dear life.

“This can’t be it. We had a great time, didn’t we? This can’t be it.”

“This is it for us. I hope you find the woman you’ve always wondered about, but it isn’t me. Now, let go of my hand,” she told me, but I did not do so immediately. I was filled with thoughts of holding on, and bringing her back to me by force if necessary. They were the thoughts that occasionally although inevitably appear as strategies for success are considered, but I was not one to fight a dirty war, and so I let go, and meekly sat back, raising my lower lip in defeat and watching as she stood, her hips wonderfully shaped in the strapless dress, its pattern barely recognizable beneath the gaudy lights of the club debauchery. The chestnut locks of her shimmering hair fell across her face as she picked up her purse from the table and in that moment I thought I detected hesitation, a thought which quickly dissipated when her face and faint smile came into view.

“Thank you,” she said, and then fired what would be the final bullet. She walked, not toward the main entrance but toward the side door directly across from the booth where she and I had briefly been the greatest of unions. The dance floor seemed to part for her; or, perhaps, the revelers did so on my account, allowing full view of the beauty whose killer form and deadly eyes waged a decisive battle where the enemy fought bravely and died dishonorably at the feet of an adversary far greater and more admirable than the armies of all the nations on this Earth.

People of dark, ashen skin and even darker hair, draped in the remnants of once proudly worn clothing, mull about the heap of garbage on the old ocean barge, removing objects and waste they feel may be useful. The melancholy waves crash against the low sides of the foul smelling ship and splash the heavily salted water across an old black duffle bag. The old crusty cardboard inside once again soaked… the ink that once defaced a jolly fat Italian chef with the ramblings of a mad traveler now a mere smear of blue and black. One short, wiry thin woman sees the duffle bag and hunches down, groaning as her old knees and back resist the adjustment into this most uncomfortable position. The muscles beneath the loose skin of her arms ripple and stretch as she places her hands around the top rim of the duffle bag. She fights the mountain of diapers for the duffle bag and wins when the full length of it emerges. It is faded to the point where one could think this duffle bag is gray and not black, and jagged holes surround it on all sides. A strip of what was once an aluminum can juts out from beneath it, strange liquid dripping from the sharp and silvery tip. The woman is careful not to allow the bottom of the bag to get near her.

She pulls the string sealing the opening and leans over to peer inside, pausing only to move strands of graying black hair from her eyes and tuck them neatly behind her left ear. Her brows furrow as she is reminded that her once black hair is as gray as the duffle bag. A second later she is looking inside… nothing too interesting. She removes a diamond shaped shred of cardboard and looks at it, unknowingly cocking her head as she does so. It is a strange collection of symbols that she decides can only be a form of writing, but none that she is familiar with. The woman discards it along with the rest of the trash and thrusts her arm into the bag, shoveling out the contents. Strips of paper and cardboard fall out across the trash heap and as she hurriedly digs they begin to fall past the edge of the barge and into the ocean below. Once she has dug through half the bag she finds another, smaller bag. She remembers the children in the city wear these across their backs to carry school items. The woman removes this bag and sets it beside her before returning to her exploration of the graying black duffle bag. All that remains are a large, soiled green blanket, several more piles of papers and cardboard, and a plastic bag containing several rotted articles of clothing. Even her ragged wardrobe is better than these remains. She removes what remains to ensure she has scavenged what she can and then tosses the old useless duffle bag aside. It falls limp near the edge of the barge, half the bag hanging off the edge and soaked within seconds by the rolling waves.

The woman brings the smaller bag between her legs and finds several items. One is a plastic bag containing several old notebooks, all bound together by a worn red scarf. She rips the old scarf away and skims through the notebooks. The same writing from the old shreds of paper… along with many hastily drawn images. A lonely old tree… a large house surrounded by drooping willows… a round feminine face veiled by long and unbrushed hair… an old metallic oil lamp… a hazy mountain peak visible past the edge of a cliff… a large savage looking dog… all blurry and smeared across the pages they adorn. She sees no use in such frivolous garbage and lobs them out into the ocean, now angry that this seemingly unscathed treasure chest is yielding no worthwhile treasure. The notebooks make no splash and bob up and down with the waves, slowly floating away into the depths of time. The woman resumes her search of the small bag and finds yet another item containing the strange foreign symbols. A thick old book… red cover worn to the point where it is as thin as paper after having once been as thick as wood. She finds herself curious to look at more of this foreign writing in a futile attempt to understand its meaning.

This foreign writing is not smeared, but printed. It remains steadfast on the old yellowed sheets of paper. The woman does notice one smeared line on the first page of the book, a line that for some reason was handwritten while the rest of the book was not. She looks at the smeared line and cocks her head again. She will never know what that line meant. Regaining what little composure a woman of her lowly status can muster she places the book on a diaper beside her and continues searching the bag. Not much remains… several warped pens, rolls of green sheets of paper now melted into each other, more refuse. But as she reaches into a small sidepocket inside the bag she finds something hard, and long. The woman pulls it out and reveals it to be a cracked leather sheath, and as she opens the sheath she reveals its guarded treasure: a knife, with handle made of a strange dark wood and figure of yet another savage dog carved into it. The blade is somewhat dulled yet as brilliant as the day it was received. She smiles at finding such a useful treasure and places it back into the sheath, then into the pocket of her worn dress. She stands up, and looks about for the next discovery. The old red book remains on the filthy diaper for a few minutes while the woman returns from whence she came, until a large swell rocks the barge. The book skids and tumbles along the piles of rubbish and into the ocean, joining the rest of the trash that could not cling to the side of the heap. Floating away… discarded along with the rest of the evidence that, once upon a time, a man lived.

A tiny, miniscule, insignificant portion of an unnoticeable part of the universe giggles with delight and cries in agony, if only for the smallest comprehensible expanse of time, and then resumes the mundanity of existence.

People of dark, ashen skin and even darker hair, draped in the remnants of once proudly worn clothing, mull about the heap of garbage on the old ocean barge, removing objects and waste they feel may be useful. The melancholy waves crash against the low sides of the foul smelling ship and splash the heavily salted water across an old black duffle bag. The old crusty cardboard inside once again soaked… the ink that once defaced a jolly fat Italian chef with the ramblings of a mad traveler now a mere smear of blue and black. One short, wiry thin woman sees the duffle bag and hunches down, groaning as her old knees and back resist the adjustment into this most uncomfortable position. The muscles beneath the loose skin of her arms ripple and stretch as she places her hands around the top rim of the duffle bag. She fights the mountain of diapers for the duffle bag and wins when the full length of it emerges. It is faded to the point where one could think this duffle bag is gray and not black, and jagged holes surround it on all sides. A strip of what was once an aluminum can juts out from beneath it, strange liquid dripping from the sharp and silvery tip. The woman is careful not to allow the bottom of the bag to get near her.

She pulls the string sealing the opening and leans over to peer inside, pausing only to move strands of graying black hair from her eyes and tuck them neatly behind her left ear. Her brows furrow as she is reminded that her once black hair is as gray as the duffle bag. A second later she is looking inside… nothing too interesting. She removes a diamond shaped shred of cardboard and looks at it, unknowingly cocking her head as she does so. It is a strange collection of symbols that she decides can only be a form of writing, but none that she is familiar with. The woman discards it along with the rest of the trash and thrusts her arm into the bag, shoveling out the contents. Strips of paper and cardboard fall out across the trash heap and as she hurriedly digs they begin to fall past the edge of the barge and into the ocean below. Once she has dug through half the bag she finds another, smaller bag. She remembers the children in the city wear these across their backs to carry school items. The woman removes this bag and sets it beside her before returning to her exploration of the graying black duffle bag. All that remains are a large, soiled green blanket, several more piles of papers and cardboard, and a plastic bag containing several rotted articles of clothing. Even her ragged wardrobe is better than these remains. She removes what remains to ensure she has scavenged what she can and then tosses the old useless duffle bag aside. It falls limp near the edge of the barge, half the bag hanging off the edge and soaked within seconds by the rolling waves.

The woman brings the smaller bag between her legs and finds several items. One is a plastic bag containing several old notebooks, all bound together by a worn red scarf. She rips the old scarf away and skims through the notebooks. The same writing from the old shreds of paper… along with many hastily drawn images. A lonely old tree… a large house surrounded by drooping willows… a round feminine face veiled by long and unbrushed hair… an old metallic oil lamp… a hazy mountain peak visible past the edge of a cliff… a large savage looking dog… all blurry and smeared across the pages they adorn. She sees no use in such frivolous garbage and lobs them out into the ocean, now angry that this seemingly unscathed treasure chest is yielding no worthwhile treasure. The notebooks make no splash and bob up and down with the waves, slowly floating away into the depths of time. The woman resumes her search of the small bag and finds yet another item containing the strange foreign symbols. A thick old book… red cover worn to the point where it is as thin as paper after having once been as thick as wood. She finds herself curious to look at more of this foreign writing in a futile attempt to understand its meaning.

This foreign writing is not smeared, but printed. It remains steadfast on the old yellowed sheets of paper. The woman does notice one smeared line on the first page of the book, a line that for some reason was handwritten while the rest of the book was not. She looks at the smeared line and cocks her head again. She will never know what that line meant. Regaining what little composure a woman of her lowly status can muster she places the book on a diaper beside her and continues searching the bag. Not much remains… several warped pens, rolls of green sheets of paper now melted into each other, more refuse. But as she reaches into a small sidepocket inside the bag she finds something hard, and long. The woman pulls it out and reveals it to be a cracked leather sheath, and as she opens the sheath she reveals its guarded treasure: a knife, with handle made of a strange dark wood and figure of yet another savage dog carved into it. The blade is somewhat dulled yet as brilliant as the day it was received. She smiles at finding such a useful treasure and places it back into the sheath, then into the pocket of her worn dress. She stands up, and looks about for the next discovery. The old red book remains on the filthy diaper for a few minutes while the woman returns from whence she came, until a large swell rocks the barge. The book skids and tumbles along the piles of rubbish and into the ocean, joining the rest of the trash that could not cling to the side of the heap. Floating away… discarded along with the rest of the evidence that, once upon a time, a man lived.

A tiny, miniscule, insignificant portion of an unnoticeable part of the universe giggles with delight and cries in agony, if only for the smallest comprehensible expanse of time, and then resumes the mundanity of existence.