Portal (3)

Joe laughs in my face.


"You're even more repulsive than I thought, Kyle!" he says.


I shake my head. "And you're not as funny as you think you are."


"Oh, come on! You finally meet this girl who says she wants to marry you, and at first I was questioning her sanity, I'll admit. But it only took you two days to go from her accepting your proposal to her running away from you, screaming. I don't know how you pulled it off, but I am proud." He claps his hand on my shoulder.


I shrug it off and pace back and forth.


"Maybe one day I'll be disgusting enough to outdo you," he continues.


I grab a cup of pens off the Kinko's counter and shoot them at his face. At least, that's what I'm trying to do when they knock over some purple ad on the counter.


"Hey! For the last time, will you stop acting like a damn tornado in here? God..."


"Sorry. I'll stop."


"Sure you will." Due to past experience, he doesn't believe me.


She didn't exactly scream, but she did run away. I was too stunned to follow at first, and then I lost her. I came here to figure out what to do next.


Joe just keeps mocking me. I stomp around, and come up with zero ideas.


Then I see Laura walk past the window. Her long brown hair swishes behind her as she power-walks down the street. I stare after her until she's out of sight. Then I finally snap out of it and run for the door.


I sprint past Joe, who yells, "Go frighten some ladies for the Gipper!" I slam the door behind me and hear him swear as it shakes the frame.


She's almost two blocks ahead of me already, heading toward the gas station on 10th. Where is she going in such a rush?


I run up behind her and scream, "LAURA!!!"


She freezes. I probably didn't need to be that loud. I was only about ten feet behind her when I yelled. She doesn't turn around. I run up and face her.


I smile wide now that I finally see her again. When I step forward to hug her, he flinches back. She tilts her head and glares at me like I've grown a second head and it's swearing at her in Spanish.


"Laura, why are you acting so weird today?" No answer. "Are you okay? Do you need me to take you to the doctor?"


She shakes her head, says nothing.


"Maybe you have a fever and you're hallucinating or something. Did you drink any water today?"


Her mouth falls open wide, and if I'm not mistaken, her face is turning red. So are her fists, with her nails digging into her palms. Can't shake the feeling that I'm staring down a hurricane.


"You..." she lets out in an angry huff. "Go away. You're not even supposed to exist here."


"You're confused, Laura. Why don't we go somewhere and sit down? We could-"


"All I wanted to do was find you and scream at you, but now I just mostly want to kill you. I want to slam your head against the concrete. Or at least run away again. Why did I walk through that STUPID portal?!"


She has to be sick. I have no idea what she's talking about. I open my mouth to speak, but realize I probably shouldn't tell her how cute she looks when she's angry. Then she might actually kill me. I say something else instead. She's just about to go on another rant, but I interrupt her before she can get out the first word.


"Laura, I love you."


She pauses, and seems confused.


"Not anymore," she says.


I step toward her again and take advantage of her shock to put her hand in mine before she can pull away. I look in the eyes that always remind me of a stormy sky and say the first thing that comes out.


"You are cute and smart and creative and a little bit crazy. And I love all of those things about you."


She's still frozen, but now her eyes fill up with tears that eventually flow down her cheek.


"I don't want you to love me," she says, and I force back tears of my own. "You're not even supposed to know me this time." 


What is she talking about with all this?


Something is wrong with this girl - something big. And I'm going to do everything I can to fix her.


She can no longer speak, but keeps opening her mouth and trying to. Her red face grows pale.


The tears run faster now. I can't keep myself from reaching out to hold her. She remains stiff in my arms and the tears turn to hard sobs. I let her go.


She opens her right hand and something falls to the ground with a TING. 


It's the engagement ring I've been carrying in my pocket since I was eighteen, waiting to give to the perfect girl at the perfect moment. Waiting to give to her, like I had two days ago on the Andy Warhol bridge at sunset. The gold band looks dull against the tan sidewalk on this cloudy day.


She turns and stumbles back the way she came without a word or a look behind her.


A drop of water splashes my scrunched brow as I watch her walk away. After a few minutes, I pick up the ring and head back to Joe's work in the light rain. I tell him what happened.


"So, what's your plan now, seeing as she has no intention of even talking to you ever again?"


I frown. "Yeah, it doesn't seem like she will."


But I can't shake this feeling that we end up together. I know it with 100% certainty.


"I have to try," I tell him. "I'll win her back. There has to be a way."



//


[to be continued . . .]

Portal (2)

I ran down Caron street until I made it to the diner where Ann worked. Heads jerked toward the front as bells on the door cracked against glass at my wild entry.

"Ann!" though I already had her attention. She slowly lowered the blue mug she was drying and came out from behind the counter.

"What is it this time?" she asked with less compassion than I was hoping for.

"What do you mean 'this time'?"

"Well, about a month ago you came in here freaking out about how you'd met the man of your dreams at open mic night, and just two days ago, you gave our poor door similar treatment and came in scaring off the customers, screaming you're engaged."

"What?!"

"All those scratches along the tile are from you, ya' know? And the chips in the wood along the window. I'm still surprised the glass is in-tact."

"It's worse than I thought," I moaned, slouching over a stool and ignoring Ann's complaints.

"And those bells used to be round, by the way."

I smacked my head against the faux marble veneer a couple times before resting it in my folded hands.

"How can we be engaged already, Ann?"

"Uh... That's what I asked you on Tuesday, and you got all pissy, told me I just didn't 'get you,' ran out of here, slamming the door again, and this is the first time we've talked since." Her raised eyebrow and folded arms told me how unamused she was by my shenanigans.

I leapt to my feet and crushed her in a hug.

"I'm so sorry, Ann. I'm an idiot, and you're right about everything. But I'm going to listen to you this time. Things will be different."

"Fine, Laura. Just let me go so I can finish my shift."

"No, you can't! There are more things I have to talk to you about!"

"God, Laur. It can't wait twenty-five minutes?"

I sighed and conceded. She made up a hot chocolate on the house to soothe me back into my senses.

We decided to walk to the small park by a bus stop and chat on a bench there. Ann didn't want to sit around in the restaurant after she got off.

"So what earth-shattering event do you have to tell me about now?" she asked, frowning.

. . .

"What do you mean, a "portal'?"

. . .

"No, Laura. You are NOT from the future."

"I AM, Ann! I swear!"

"Okay, Ms. Time-traveller. If you're from the future, what happens here in exactly five minutes?"

"It's not like that. This isn't how things happened before."

"If you were from the future, then in the future I would have already had this conversation. Did I ever mention it to you?"

"Maybe I tell you not to for some reason or your memory gets erased. I don't know! I'm not here to argue the logic of time travel with you. We have more important things to discuss."

"Like?"

"Have I introduced you to Kyle yet?"

"Your fiancé?"

I groaned and my stomach tightened at the mention of the word.

"Yeah. That. Have I?"

"No."

"I was just talking to him."

Ann leaned toward me and grinned like a child. "Did you freak out and tell him you were from the future?"

"You are evil. Why does that amuse you so much?"

She just shrugged.

"Well, I just appeared there, in front of him. I don't remember what exactly I said, but I basically screamed at him then ran off."

"Did he follow you?"

"God, I hope not."

She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head.

"I don't understand," she said. "You were head over heels just a few days ago. What happened since then?"

I let out a sigh and doubled over, my hands and head resting in my lap.

"That's just the thing, Ann."

"What? I can't hear you. You're mumbling into your knees."

I sat up and tried again.

"It hasn't been a few days. It's been a few years. Six years."

"You're from six years in the future?"

"Yeah."

"So, in the 'future,' how do things turn out?"

I opened my mouth to tell her, but had no idea how to summarize it all. I closed it again, and just shook my head.

"Not good," was the reply I settled on.

"Well, then keep the not good things from happening."

"How?"

She looked at me and shook her head like I was an idiot. Which I was.

"I don't even know where he is. How can I break up with him - AH!" I screamed and jumped off the bench.

"What??"

I waved my left hand in front of her.

"I haven't worn this for six years! Why is it on my hand?"

She reached out and pulled off the silver band.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Can you stop screaming now?"

"Maybe."

She glared at me.

"Okay! I will. But I really really don't want to talk to him."

"Just take this," she placed the ring in my hand, "and tell him you changed your mind."

I tried to picture it. I imagined what I would say. My eyes unfocused as I pictured the conversation, and I already started to feel a strange kind of release.

"I think I'm going to tell him a lot more than that."

"Good. This is South Side on a Saturday afternoon, so if you walk up and down the sidewalk long enough, you'll probably run into him."

I made a beeline back toward Carson.

//

[to be continued . . .]

Portal (1)

Sometimes I wonder if there's a world where you never existed. In this world, somehow the rest of my life remains exactly the same.

But nothing reminds me of you.

I don't have to crane my neck to make sure you haven't come to our favorite restaurant at the same time as me.

I don't have to delete photos and throw away clothing with too much of an emotional attachment.

And most of all -

I wonder who I am in this alternate world.

I hate a lot of what I've become, even though I try not to. People say that I'm stronger now and more mature because of what I've been through.

But there are times when I look at old photos...

I see a girl with a hopeful smile and innocent sea-colored eyes. She stares up at me, not expecting for a second that she'll have to face what I'm about to put her through.

I feel I owe a debt to myself in the past.

The girl who always thought she'd travel the world and hasn't been outside of the state in seven years.

The girl who thought her life would be comprised of more valuable days than those wasted at dead-end jobs.

The girl who always wanted to be chosen. And thought that she had been . . .

What if there was a place where she hadn't been so disappointed?

The wind howls.

The house creaks.

I turn my head to stare out the window.

My knee bangs the rickety table and my tea shakes and splashes onto the picture's surface.

“Shit,” I mutter through a yawn.

I take the photo of the girl with a green hoodie throwing up a peace sign in front of a chicken coop and place it on the vinyl bench in the corner.

I amble over to the kitchen island and reach for a paper towel.

Something catches my attention out of the corner of my tired, puffy eyes.

Out the french door to the balcony there's an out-of-place, flickering light.

I turn to give it my full attention.

Zig-zags of gold and blue flutter up from the horizon.

“What is going on out there?” I wonder out loud.

Behind me, the house is quiet. Everyone else has been sleeping for quite some time. No one to provide assistance.

When I turn back to the doors, the lights are filling the February sky like ill-timed fireworks. I shake my head, and can't build an explanation.

The lights are joined by others and they zoom larger and closer, filling up the entire scene beyond the balcony.

I approach the doors in a daze.

“I'm still awake, right?” I ask myself.

“Hopefully not,” I answer.

But everything looks as it should. It's not a house that looks like mine but is supposed to be where I grew up. I'm not somehow the president of a foreign nation, which everyone is aware of but nobody talks about. The only thing out of place . . . are those lights.

I reach for the door handle.

“Gah!”

It burns. I bring my hand to my face and stare at the red splotches on my fingertips and palm. I've felt pain in dreams that seemed pretty real, but this was intense.

My stomps echoe in the quiet as I march back to the kitchen. But I wasn't going for butter or ice. I grab a pot holder.

I have to know what's on the other side of that door.

I take a deep breath and turn the handle.

Heat blasts me like an industrial blow-dryer. I can't see, but I'm not blinking. The light surrounds me, but doesn't hurt my eyes. I can feel it. It tickles in a pleasant way. I can tell the beige carpet is no longer under my feet, but I'm not falling. Just suspended in the overwhelming aura.

Then darkness.

My eyes strain for focus but there's nothing to see.

Then images appear slowly as if it's dawn.

I know exactly where I am.

This isn't what I had in mind. Almost the opposite.

Instead of a world where he doesn't exist, it's a world where I can make a different decision.

He just stands there, looking at me as if everything's normal and fine. The long, dark hair he used to have. His jovial blue eyes. I want to gouge them.

“What?” Kyle asks.

My face shares all sorts of wonder, confusion, and rage. I try to form a more coherent expression, but I have no idea what's going on.

“I just . . . What were we doing?”

“What are you talking about, Laura?”

“I mean, what was your favorite part of what we just did?” It seems like a good way to ask.

I'm pretty sure we just went to eat at that wing place on the first night we went on an "official" date.

“I don't know. I guess I liked the honey jalapeño ones.” Kyle shrugs.

My mouth drops open – I can't help it.

“What is going on with you? Do you need to sit down?”

“No, no. I'm fine.” Total lie.

“Well, we can go hang out at the coffee shop for a while. Maybe some caffeine will help you get over your food coma.”

“Heh. Yeah. Food coma.”

“We can go to my favorite place – The Fig Tree.”

“What? No. We're not going there. I don't want to go anywhere with you!” I end with what's practically a scream.

I take off down the sidewalk, bumping into strangers along the way.

//

[to be continued . . .]

"When I see you, it stings like Hell." -t.a.i.

[On a Co-Op Farm that its tenants have dubbed "Rainbow Hillside," in Eastern Pennsylvania in the suburbs of Philadelphia:]


[A group sits in clumps of one to three people around a large bonfire.]

[A red-haired young man, 26-30, sits alone in a knit cap and flannel shirt, staring into the fire.]

[A young woman, 20-25, with a tye-died shirt and copper hair flipped into a messy bun, approaches him from behind.]




<She sits down behind him and puts her arms around his neck. He remains stiff.>

Regina:  Hey. I missed you at dinner.

Davey:  Hey.

Regina:  Where were you?

<He sits, unmoving, and stares into the fire.>

Davey:  Here.

<She shifts and takes a seat in the grass next to him.>
<She looks up into his face, but he doesn't make eye contact.>
 <She continues to stare at him, and a frown forms on her face.>

Davey:  What?

Regina:  You won't even look at me. Why?

<He turns his head and finally meets her gaze.>

Davey:  What?

Regina:  You don't like looking at me.

<He sighs and heaves his shoulders.>

Davey:  Look. Just tell me whatever it is that you want me to say or admit to, and I'll say it so you can be happy and we can move along, okay?

<She opens her mouth.>
<She doesn't speak.>
<She closes it again.>

<He turns back to the fire.>

<She stares at him for a few minutes, brow furrowed.>
<She smiles and scoots closer to him, so their arms are touching.>

Regina:  I have an idea.

<He looks at her.>

<She waits for him to speak.>
<She opens her mouth when he doesn't, and fumbles with her words.>

Regina:  Well, I thought that ... that we could do, ya' know ... something. I guess.

Davey:  Like what?

Regina:  I don't know. What would you like to do?

<He gives her a skeptical look.>
<He shrugs.>

Regina:  You want to go walk in the creek?

Davey:  No. It's too cold.

Regina:  Okay. Do you want to hang out in the barn?

Davey:  And do what?

Regina:  I don't know. Just talk or something, I guess. We haven't talked too much lately. At all, really.

<He stands.>

<She has to duck to keep from being elbowed in the process.>

Davey:  Look, I'm going to go help Sheila and Wolfie clean up the kitchen.

Regina:  Um, okay.

<He walks away from the fire.>

Regina:  Wait!

<He keeps walking.>

<She jumps to her feet.>

Regina: Davey! Wait!

<He stops, but doesn't turn around.>

<She runs forward.>
<She passes him and faces him.>

Davey:  What do you want? I'm supposed to help them.

Regina:  You were just sitting and staring in the flames when I came outside, so I don't see why you suddenly have to run in there right now, when I was trying to talk to you.

Davey:  I'm sorry. You're right. I was slacking. Can I go now?

Regina:  Well, let's do something after you're done.

Davey:  Sure.

Regina:  When will you be done?

Davey:  I don't know. Probably not until after midnight. 

Regina:  That's fine! Let's talk after.

Davey:  Nah. I'll be too tired.

Regina:  Maybe I can give you a massage or something?

Davey:  No thanks. Actually, I have to meet with Jeremy about re-tiling the bathroom at eleven.

<Her brow creases again.>

Regina: You didn't say that before. What are you doing tomorrow morning?

<Davey hefts his arms in frustration.>

Davey:  Look - what do you want, Reg?! I have to go.

Regina:  I just want to spend time with you!

Davey:  Fine. Come clean the kitchen with us.

<He walks on toward the back door of the house.>

<She walks after him.>

Regina:  I want to spend some time with just the two of us.

<He keeps walking.>
<He answers her, but doesn't look back.>

Davey:  Why?

<Her jaw literally drops.>

Regina:  Why?! Because I love you!

<He keeps walking.>

Davey:  I love you, too, but I have things to do. I don't see why it matters whether other people are there or not when we're spending time together.

A Summer Flu

You're like a sickness that leaves me wasted,
And I'm like a dog coming back to its vomit.
It's June again.
Time to go back to the place
That keeps us from being able to begin.

With your lips on all my 'No's
And my fingertips
Caressing every doubt you have to life,
We can make it through this cycle,
More worn than before.
I can make it through at least once more,
As the corrosion seeps into my core.

It's all worth the spark-
Every wail worth the joy.
And it's fading, so we have to keep chasing it.
But the pain loses edge,
Even loss's dark sting.
And as it's fading, I'm afraid of forgetting it.

Not one ache in my stomach;
Or neurotically clawed-up arm;
Not one longing so deep
It caused bodily harm
Would I give up for the sake of being healthier.
'Cuz, for me, there's only ever been your eyes.
Like magnets - polar opposites -
The positive and the negative,
Holding my life together inbetween.

So, hurt me just deep enough that I'll feel it 'til next year,
And as the pain lingers, I'll remember all your beauty.
Come to me like lightning,
More power than I can contain.
Fry me to the point
Of barely being alive.
No one's seen more passion than an atom bomb.

Sometime's I feel like everybody knows this feeling.
And sometimes I feel
Like I'm the only one who's ever been alive,
'Cuz I'm the only one who's ever been right here.
And when I'm with you,
And I'm pouring out my life into your eyes,
I grow faint, wondering how I'll ever breathe without you.
But I've seen enough Septembers
To know these lungs will survive.

And I will survive.
And we will live on.
And I'll barely even miss you,
But wish that I did more.
I wonder if you even remember my name.
You're like a picture, removed:
The wall just looks off-colour without the frame.
Sometime's I'm not sure what's missing,
Or if you would even still fill that space,
But something belongs there.

Emptied-&-Waiting

I can't shake the desire for your strong arms.
But you have shaken off all your desire for me.
I can't help but wish that I hated you more.
That I didn't want to feel the warmth of your skin.
But I do.
I want to place my arm just close enough to your chest that my hairs tickle your skin.
I want to remember how to abandon my caution with you.
But in your wake, I am finding my scars.
I am feeling my emotional mortality.
Bricks seem strong, but over time they crumble.
And I want your lips.
I want your thighs.
I want your kiss.
I want to be the reason for your impious eyes.
Clutch me.
Know me.
No.
It's not even like wishing for the dead to rise,
but for the return of a ghost
that was never fully embodied to begin with.
I have never know rejection
so deeply
until I thought - for a moment - that I was chosen.
But I want you so badly. That truth remains.
I tell myself I don't.
I tell myself you're not worth wanting.
But it stings every time I unconsciously reach for you.
No wine makes me forget.
No laugh makes me forget.
No hours - no space impacts this feeling.
There is ebbing, but it always returns.
To have loved and lost -
leaves a chasm.
With a particular shape.
And all I can say,
is that maybe the rain will wash it,
and change its shape,
and even fill it in a bit over many, many years.
Some combination of *Your presence and my crying,
the rain will come.
Inevitable.
Drenching.
Chilling.
Revival.
Awake.
Opening my eyes, I search for *You.
I could say, *You know, due to my horrible experiences,
I do believe I deserve someone better.
Someone to be the opposite of disappointment.
And *You would give that to me, I'm sure.
But I could ask for something greater.
The truest, fullest experience.
The love that goes beyond loving
as we know it, being merely human.
I could ask for someone new to fit into that chasm and overflow my heart.
Or I could let *You do it.
It will be impossible - nearly - to overcome this longing for warm flesh.
But *You became flesh.
And in a different way, *You can be so much closer.
Present.
One.
It will be harder to wait for.
And fight for.
And the two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.
But there's something to that.
*YOU are the opposite of a rebound.
*You are fullness and healing instead of band-aids.
And I love *You.
Help my pain not un-focus that for me.
I love *You.
And *You are like an encompassing warm wind
that transports me to *Your kingdom-
A wormhole whirlwind.
Touch my heart.
*You're the balm.
*You're the regeneration.
*You are life.
And something beyond life that can only be described as being more alive.
Stay.
Hold me.
Close my lips from whispering false longings.
By placing *Your lips on them.
Love me.
And the best part is that *You already want to.
But *You like it when I ask.
And now *You have me smiling my own devious smile
that is also wholesome. Somehow.
In *Your hands are the greatest pleasures, just waiting.
...but I'm so afraid

"And even while *You're waiting, I'm just shivering and fading..." -9days (capitalization mine)

Prince Waldo

He comes in the door, and I make a conscious effort to put my thoughts behind me. I remind myself: you can do this. Just a few more days. And then a few more days after that... It's always just a few more days. Just a few more lies. Just a few more times I pretend not to be grieved by his words or the absence of them. Just a bit more.

The look in his eyes speaks of numbness and ignorance. He stopped noticing there were any problems a long time ago, and he stopped caring long before that. Love, crusted on the outside and rotting within. That's the left-over casserole that we call our marriage these days.

Not that I haven't contributed anything to the decay. Not that I haven't found my own ways to cope. He thinks I'm just this tiny little neglected damsel, and that I willingly accept my role. He couldn't be more wrong. I don't hate myself enough to stay in this farce without receiving my own benefits.

His name is John. Not my husband, John. And he doesn't love me, either. I used to think that he did, but I realize more and more everyday that genuine affection of any sort is as endangered as the rhino. My mom cares for me just enough to keep her guilt at bay. My brother, Tyler, thinks that as long as he sends Christmas cards with lengthy letters, that means the family bond is kept in tact. It's all a show put on to satisfy our own vanities. Nothing deeper.

But here I am, getting some kind of high from knowing he believes me when I tell him I spent the day reorganizing the refrigerator. He'll open its door, and every item will be in exactly the same place as when he last saw it. But he won't notice. He never did notice those things. If I scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees for three hour because a jar of honey had been shattered on it, he wouldn't even lift his head to give an appreciative nod. It's not that he's incapable of caring. There were things he cared about once, even more than polishing and rebuilding his cars. But it's easier for him dwell low in the same lulled state, day in and day out. Expecting the same from me. Not thinking that I'm plotting a way out of here.

But its been years now. It's been years, and everything is still the same. I used to think my husband, Brian, was my knight in shining armor, ready to sweep me off my feet at even the hint of trouble. Then I realized like an alarm clock crashing you out of a dream that he wasn't. For a good long while, though, I still waited for him to transform into my Prince Charming. But he proved to me over and over again that he had no interest in transforming at all into anything - ever. So I sought Prince Knight else where. I went through a lot of Prince Charmings in those first five years of wandering. The retail agent, the carpenter ... the teenage. I mean, he was nineteen, so I was perfectly within my legal limits, but still. I was thirty at the time. We used to listen to country songs about wild affairs and then do our best to re-enact them. But I was seriously deluding myself to imagine that was going anywhere. It was fun, but possibly the most heart breaking tryst of them all. I'll never forget those blue eyes. They were alive with light - the kind of light that I used to kid myself into thinking was inside of Brian. If it ever was there, that light was smothered long before we even met. All I was ever exposed to was its ghost, and even the ghost is long-gone now.

The nineteen year old, though. He had something. He looked out at the world like it was looking back and speaking to him, and he would crane his neck, trying to take in the things it said in wordless expressions. He wasn't a painter or a poet, but those blue eyes were worth more than murals or stanzas. They spoke the languages that are spoken deep inside of hearts and tucked in between the folds of memories. And what I hoped for, when I looked into those young fiery eyes, was that I could speak back to them. That I had the capability of communicating the same kinds of utterances. That my fire hadn't died just as my husband's had.

It didn't end well. One night, getting lost in the imagined worlds I stared into with him, I broke down and exposed myself. The tears poured, and I confessed all the horror I had been through in my marriage. All the hurt I had internalized. I released the grief that bent me double. And I told him about my hope. My ever expectant wait for the Alabaster Prince. And I asked him if he would be that for me - if he would carry me away on his white horse, away from danger. Then, as I continued speaking, I realized something. While he was completely taking in everything I was telling, the look he was projecting back to me wasn't of wonder and hope and mutual excitement. It was of confusion, every second mingling more and more with that of fear. He stuttered ...

"Um, uh . . . I'm sorry. I mean, you're amazing to be with, but I can't... I can't be that for you. I mean, I have things I want to do with my life and places to go, and... I'm sorry. This was absolutely amazing, but I guess it's probably meant a lot more for you than it has for me."

"Oh my god, please don't go. You're the closest I've ever come to having hope."

"I can't be your hope, Marva. You have to find that inside yourself."

And he drove away.

See, that's the thing. That's the whole reason behind me looking for Prince Charming. The whole reason for my self delusional belief that Brian could be that. I don't have that hope. Not a lick of it. All I have is the desire to look for it in someone else. How is that supposed to work in the first place, HOPE? As if I'm really supposed to believe that all this can get better? Sure. Sure it will. Tomorrow will hurt less than today and more and more offences piled up upon an already wounded heart will help. Sure. I do have hope that it will never get better - is that hope?

So, my answer is just trying to numb the pain with whoever may be available and mildly interesting. Preferably something that will last for a while, even if there's not much value in it besides the value lent to it by the forbidden fruit of deception and adultery.  But here's the problem:

The problem is, no matter how much I repeat over and over to myself that this new relationship is only temporary and I'm only using it as a high that doesn't get me all that high, I still wonder if maybe, just maybe, this one could be the real Prince I've been looking for.

And the biggest problem comes into play when I look at my husband, Brian. Because even though I know that I won't ever see my Rescuing Princely Knight in his eyes; even though I know that all I will ever see is callousness and bitterness and resentment; even though I know I will never find my hope there - I still look.