A random stranger and a new living situation? It sounds like something straight out of a sit com... or a horror film. But, luckily my random stranger was something else.
There's a trope of men telling the women they love that they are "not like other girls." Why is this notion so ingrained into our media and why does a girl have to be unlike other females to deserve attention?
First, you show him that you know exactly what he is
You have seen the battle scars, the claw marks on his arms from someone begging to live
They are colored differently, aged separately
Second, you show him that you understand
You show him your belly and tell him he is right
You do not say why
You do not know why
Neither does he
Third, you wash the blood from the sheets
He has been biting his own lip and scratching his own chest in sleep
You wonder if his nightmares are of himself
He does not say
Fourth, you do not ask him
He tells you that he was a monster long before they made him into a hero
You have never thought they may have lied about the order of these things
Fifth, he is not an aged and bitter hero
He is a tired warrior
Can no longer fight the war
Can no longer fight himself
Sixth, the best way to sleep with a monster is to let it sleep.
Boys will be boys
He pushes you down on the playground,
now the knees of your new jeans are more gravel and blood than denim.
Your teacher tells you that he likes you
That’s just how boys show you that they like you.
She tells you all of this with a smile.
The next time he pushes you down you don’t tell your teacher.
You will smile at him as you get up,
gritting your teeth together against the pain.
Boys will be boys
This new boy sits behind you in class
and while you’re learning cursive he takes the scissors from his desk
cuts your braid off and howls with laughter.
When you tell your teacher she shakes her head
she tells you boys aren’t mature yet
and that he probably has a crush on you.
The boy puts your braid in his desk
but your teacher acts as if the scissors didn’t violate you.
Boys will be boys
He was supposed to be your friend.
Later, he’ll tell his friends that you owed him
for the cost of the dance ticket
and the dying corsage.
You won’t put the word to what happened to you for years,
that word is for men who snatch girls off of the streets
not someone you spent the whole night dancing and laughing with.
Right?
Boys will be boys
It hurts when your fiancé holds you
always too tight
taking your breath away.
Even though your boss is married
you still feel his eyes on you while you work.
Because you are ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’.
When men of equal status to you treat you as a secretary
it doesn’t surprise you.
But it should.
It should set a fire in your belly.
Boys will be boys
When a boy pushes your daughter down,
you do not equate it with affection.
Because then the finger prints on her wrists
will start to look like rose petals.
She will cut her hair the way he wants
and open her legs when he says so.
So you will not tell her boys will be boys
and then pretend it’s her fault when she mistakes
aggression for affection.
How should you know, when all of your life
they’ve been intertwined?
You couldn’t have known,
but you will be sure that she does.
It is an astounding thing to be more than human.
It is marvelous how much your time increases in worth.
Your time, suddenly, is more than the same seconds that are ticking by for everyone else.
They put value on your time, specifically, making sure to waste none of it.
You do not sit in waiting rooms because you simply do not wait anymore.
They elevate your time above others, without you even realizing it.
They put importance in your seconds and achievement behind your moments without asking for justification.
They do not need to know why your time is more important, they just know that it is.
It is an unbelievable how your wants become needs.
A side comment in casual conversation about the new product can have such a gift left on your doorstep.
A simple request for more wine can have a bottle appearing at your table before you’ve even taken another sip of your almost empty glass.
There is no need for you to want, once you are more than human, because your wants are fulfilled by others as if they are needs, necessary for your survival.
Your survival now depends on how quickly you get what you want and everyone accepts that, even you.
It is fascinating how your mildness can become extravagance without a conscious change.
You have a watch, but you don’t have a watch that will go well with the suit you’re going to wear, so you need a new watch, of course.
This is a simple problem, with a simple solution.
You will go buy a watch that is of equal standard to the suit.
The problem is solved swiftly and without any frustration or animosity.
No one questions why you need a fancy watch to go with your fancy suit.
It’s not like you can wear a suit without a watch, such a thing would be far too mild for someone of your standing.
Of course you need a watch, no one questions that.
It is a petrifying thing to be more than human.
It is mindboggling for your clothes to be more than garments that protect you from the harsh winter or from the radiant sun.
Your clothes are a statement, everyone says so.
What they don’t realize is that the only statement you’ve made by wearing it, is that you were cold this morning.
They put sadness in your overcoat and drunkenness under your hat.
They do so without checking with you, to see if you are either sad or drunk.
They do not really care if you are either sad or drunk, only that you can be made that way, by their astute observations.
It is stunning for your words to be more than words that share with the world what you think or, more accurately, what you think you should think.
Your greeting, your calm, professional greeting, is a cry for companionship.
Your question to a stranger who yields no kindness to you, is a gaze into the loneliness you hide behind pleasant conversation.
They tag these emotions onto your speech, without verifying what you might mean, under your polite conversation.
They do not really care if you are either crying out or lonely, only that you can made that way, by their astute observations.
It is nauseating the way that your expressions can be more than how you feel on the most basic level.
The twitch of your hand is a reflex; it’s a reflex to clench, to fight, to punch.
The twitch of your hand is more than a simple sore muscle; it’s a violent tendency that you’ve always carried with you.
The licking of your lips is not a need for moisture; it’s a sexual impulse, one that you have not controlled since you were a teen.
The licking of your lips is almost obscene.
They put fury in your hands and lust on your person without your consent.
They do not really care if you are actually violent or promiscuous, only that you can be made that way, by their astute observations.
It is a dehumanizing thing to be more than human.
You are ripped apart in front of all, for the amusement of the masses.
You are dissected with unkempt instruments for the world to be shown.
You are torn, limb from limb, each part of you to be auctioned to the highest bidder.
Your carcass, what is left of you, is put on display.
And the worst part is that they do not mourn you.
They resent you.
When you become more than human, coined not by yourself but by those around you, you lose the humanity of others.
When you are more than human, you are no longer entitled to be treated as one.
She had come in a cab, so she wouldn’t need to worry about driving. A woman like her had no problem catching a cab. It was noon and she had ordered an Irish Car Bomb. Scott assumed that she wouldn’t be going back to work anytime soon. He should have been doing inventory since she was the only customer in the bar, but this didn’t seem like a drink she wanted to have alone.
“He has to be drunk to tell me he loves me,” the woman, her ID had read Jasmine Clark, said, looking down at her already empty glasses.
“That doesn’t seem like a very good system,” Scott said, placing his rag on a hook and leaning his elbows on the bar.
“It really doesn’t,” Jasmine agreed, shaking her head. “But it’s not like I was expecting anything else from him.”
“Why is that?” Scott asked. The man who had trained him warned that sober concerns often tumbled off of drunken tongues. It’s a bartender’s job to play whatever role the patron may be seeking, whether it be a friend or a therapist. Scott had quickly learned to toe the line between the two.
“The first time he told me he was drunk,” she said, tracing the edge of the glass with her finger. “And I was ecstatic. If I was so happy with it then why should he change it?” she paused, eyes tracing him up and down. “I’d like a long island iced tea.”
“I’m not sure that I follow,” Scott said, moving back away from the bar and rolling his sleeves up off his forearms as he began making her drink.
“If I just accept the shitty things he does to me then he’s going to keep doing the shitty things,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and scoffing. “And I’m too stupid to break the cycle.”
“Routine can be a dangerous thing,” Scott said as he set her glass in front of her, clearing the empty ones out of her way.
“Complacency,” she corrected, flicking a finger off the glass. When she moved her hand back down to the bar Scott caught sight of the modest wedding band. “Complacency kills.”
“So does liver failure,” Scott said lightly, nodding his head towards the drink.
“You don’t depend too much on your tips, do you?” Jasmine asked, raising a sculpted eyebrow at him.
Scott threw his head back and let out a shout of laughter at that, smiling and shaking his head when he looked back at Jasmine. “You’ve got jokes now, do you?”
“I’ve got plenty of things,” Jasmine answered, smile fading. “Sadly, none of those things are a successful marriage, or I wouldn’t be sitting here with you when I should be visiting my husband at work.”
“Is that the routine?”
“That’s the routine,” she agreed. “We have our lunch together because he always works late and misses dinner.”
“So far that seems like one of the finer points of your system,” Scott commented, leaning back on the bar.
“It’s not an altogether poor system, other than the alcohol dependency for the three magic words of course,” she told him, taking a sip of her drink. “My father always used to tell me that love was a commitment, not a feeling. I don’t think I really understood him until the feeling started to dampen.”
“Your father sounds like an intelligent man,” he answered, watching her nails drum on the bar. “What advice did he give you about drinking husbands?”
“I’ve got to be honest with you, I don’t think my father ever had any personal experience in dealing with drinking husbands,” she said, lips twisted into a smirk.
“Not that you knew of anyways,” Scott joked, pushing off the bar to head towards the sink with the two empty glasses. He quickly rinsed out and washed the shot glass, listening to her soft exhale.
“Not that I knew of,” she agreed, sounding at least a little bit amused. The silence hung between them for a minute as Scott washed the glasses.
“Have you ever told him that you love him when you’re not drinking?” Scott asked, not turning to look at her.
“I only tell him when I haven’t been drinking. I’m sort of a giddy drunk, not really one for emotional declarations,” she answered.
“Ah, yes, a giddy drunk I can tell,” Scott joked, hearing her laugh in response.
“Well today I’m having a crisis, it’s not quite the same as drinking with my husband and his friends.”
“I suppose that might be true,” he said, setting the glasses out to dry and turning back to her.
“I was actually thinking about reversing the roles today,” she admitted, “maybe giving him a call when I’m done here and then I’ll tell him I love him, see if the liquor makes the words taste any sweeter.”
“There’s something to be said for holding your tongue,” Scott cautioned. “I’m sure that ‘I love you’ wouldn’t be all you’d tell him in that phone call.”
“He already knows I think his brother’s hot,” Jasmine said, shooting the bartender another smile as she dug a few bills out of her purse. “There’s really no secrets between us anymore.”
“Get home safe,” Scott said, watching her step down from the stool on surprisingly steady legs.
“Home,” she said, mostly to herself, “what a concept.”
People can be described, mostly, by the things we find in the sky.
Some people are clouds.
They float along, whichever way the wind pushes them.
They disappear without a trace.
No one notices when a cloud goes missing.
Others are comets or shooting stars.
They are all awe and temporary glory.
They last for fleeting moments, demanding that someone –anyone- notice them.
We deem them acceptable to be acknowledged.
We name them but quickly forget such names and such things.
Most people are stars.
Not shooting stars.
Just- regular stars.
They are beautiful and each distinctly different.
But from where we sit and observe, they are almost all identical.
We name them, but most don’t acknowledge the names
Preferring to appreciate the beauty in ignorance.
You are the sun.
To me, at least.
You’re just another star, technically, I suppose that’s true.
But you’re something special to me.
Warm and constant and close.
You’re worth learning about and never forgetting about.
And if you are the sun, that might make me the moon.
A reflection, a dulled one, of your beauty when you are too tired to stand.
1
We have matching tattoos but won’t make eye contact.
2
I still know your social security number by heart.
3
You’re my emergency contact.
4
Sometimes I give the cab driver your address.
5
Your pictures are still on my walls.
6
My mother asks about you.
7
I haven’t taken the ring back yet.
8
Our song played on the bus today.
9
I still love you.
10
You’re made of stars.
1
Delete my number.
“When is it too late to get back the love of your life?” Byron asked, leaning forward to take the fresh drink from the bar.
“It’s you and him, it’s never going to be too late,” Scott answered, shaking his head and reaching out to wipe the bar out of instinct. It was after closing and they were the only two that remained, the bar separating them.
“He’s got kids now,” Byron said, instead of acknowledging his friend’s sentiment. “Two of them. One’s in high school and one’s starting junior high this year.”
“You’ve talked to him?” The bartender glanced up from his wiping to gage the other man’s reaction.
“His wife has me on the Christmas card list.” That hung in the air, thickening between them. “She’s a nice girl.”
“Not a girl, not anymore. She’s pushing forty now, just like we are,” Scott reminded him, reaching over to flick the glass in Byron’s hand. “That shit is gonna start catching up with you.”
“There’s a lot due to start catching up with me,” Byron said, swishing the liquor around in his glass before he tipped it down his throat in one gulp. Scott watched for a wince, but there wasn’t any. Keeping secrets lodged in his throats had numbed his to the sting.
They stayed silent for a few moments after that, Scott taking the glass and heading to the sink, beginning to diligently rinse it out, he ignored the spasms in his hands. Age was beginning to creep into both of them. Age made a home in their bodies with aching knees, peppered hair and lifelong regrets.
“He still sits in the spot,” Scott said, back still facing the other man. The past slinked between them, flashes of teenagers tripping over their own shouting and laughter. Of a young man with big brown eyes and a taste for adventure. “Every year, the morning of March 10th. It’s coming up again.”
“There’s no need for him to do that, his Daddy’s not forbidding him from going anywhere anymore,” Byron said gruffly, hands finding purchase on the bar in front of him, knuckles whitening.
“He’s waiting for something,” Scott said, pausing and lifting one shoulder to feign casualness. “Maybe waiting for someone.”
“After so many years you’d think he’d know better,” Byron said, clearing his throat. “There’s got to be a point when you know that no one is coming.”
“Maybe somebody ought to tell him,” the bartender suggested lightly. “You know James, stubborn as an ox.”
Then came the wince, like the sound of his name was nails on a chalkboard.
“I haven’t even been in town for the past decade, why would he think I was coming to pick him up for some stupid annual road trip?”
“Faith does funny things to people. And nobody’s ever had more faith in someone than James has in you,” Scott said, turning the water off and moving to set the glass down to dry. “If you’re still in town when the day comes around maybe you should stop by the spot, tell him to stop waiting for a miracle.”
“It wouldn’t be a miracle, it would be a disaster.”
James Allen is a father of two, a partner in a law firm, a loving husband. He picks up his children from school on time, he cheers at sporting events just enough to not be over the top, he brings his daughter flowers after her high school play. He loves his wife dearly and everyone knows that. He makes the worst barbeque in the neighborhood, but has the funniest aprons. He had a rebellious streak when he was young, but he was the son of a Sheriff so no one was surprised.
James Allen recycles his pizza boxes and he mows his own lawn. His roommate his freshman year of college noted that he was down to earth and realistic. His mother had raised him to believe in family. He came in third place in his firm’s charity golf tournament the year he became partner, a perfectly respectable place. He makes sure to tell his kids he loves them every night before they go to bed, even if it’s over the phone. James Allen is a family man.
But James Allen sits on a bench at the intersection of Laettner Road and Psalm Street once a year, for a whole business day. He waits for something to happen to him. He waits for his life to be more than what he’s made it. In 2016 he acts like he doesn’t see the love of his life sitting in a parked car watching him.
They don’t speak.
It’s not a miracle. It’s not a disaster. It’s a missed opportunity, on top of a lifetime of missed opportunities.
When Finn and I first met he said that I was the sun. He looked at me like I was the sun, never directly at me and always sort of in awe. He was always telling people how amazing I was, how much light I brought into his life. He would whisper to me at night about how much brighter I made everything around me. He would tell me how the universe should have orbited around me, leaned towards me whenever it could.
I looked at him like he was hot coffee when I first met him. Hot coffee is nice at times. Certainly, some people are always up for a hot cup of Joe, or in this case a hot cup of Finn. My sister, as a matter of fact, loved coffee at any time of the day. I wasn’t one for coffee at any given time. But it was nice on cold days or early mornings after you had indulged the night before and stayed out too late. Finn warmed up my insides, but sometimes I just wasn’t in the mood for him.
The problem was, two years later, I still looked at him like he was hot coffee. But he no longer looked at me like I was the sun.
I had been waiting for about a month for Finn to break up with me. I figured since he was the one who had the problem, he would be the one to end it. He never outright told me that he had a problem, but it’s one of those things you can just tell about a person when you’ve spent enough time with them. He still hadn’t, after a month, so I knew that I was going to have to end it. Sometimes it’s just better to nip things in the bud and keep them from getting out of control.
In the movies it’s easy to tell who the villain is. There are the telltale signs of a villain: they wear a dark cloak, have pointy horns, or sometimes they even tell the hero that they are indeed the bad guy, there to destroy the hero’s life. The roles are usually established within the first twenty minutes of the movie. It makes it easier to root for the right person.
I had never imagined Finn, the boy who called me the sun, as my villain. Lately though, with the shouting and the constant fights, he was shaping up to be just that. He didn’t have a dark cloak and pointy ears to tip me off. The world outside of the movies didn’t come with those easy tricks to teach you who to steer clear of in everyday life. Sometimes in real life you get close with someone before you realize that they’re your villain.
We could hardly get through a dinner without one of us storming out and we both could see our relationship crumbling in front of us. Maybe Finn didn’t want to end things because he thought two years was a lot of time to put into something. After you invested that much into something you don’t just quit on it. Maybe that’s what Finn thought. I didn’t agree.
Last night before I went to bed, I texted him that we should meet up for coffee after work. He agreed and told me good night, knowing that I never stayed up past eleven on work days. I had picked out the place, a coffee shop that Finn never went to, as to not taint the place with the memories of our break up. I would have told him at his house, but I didn’t want him to be reminded of it everytime he sat on the couch or walked into the kitchen. It’s tough when these things linder in necessary spaces.
He was already there when I arrived, I would know those broad shoulders anywhere, even under his suit jacket. I headed over to his table, giving him a small smile as I took a seat across from him. There were already two coffees on the table and I knew mine would be the correct order, because Finn knew those things about me.
“I feel like things have been off lately,” I said as I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into my hands. “I’m sure that you feel the same way?”
“If you’re sure, why are you raising your voice like it’s a question?” he asked me, looking down at the table instead of at me.
“Because I don’t want to speak for you if I’m wrong,” I told him, taking a deep breath and keeping my gaze on his face.
I could hear the tiny breath he let escape at that, something like a snort but more tame. “Then you’re not sure, so you shouldn’t say you’re sure,” he told me, shrugging and taking a sip of his own coffee.
“I guess not,” I answered, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at him. “Either way, things have been off lately, whether you think so or not.”
“I do think so,” he interrupted. “I’ve actually been wanting to talk to you about it. I’m always so tired and I know that has taken a strain on our relationship. I haven’t been treating you the way you deserve. So-”
“I think we should break up,” I blurted.
“Today I asked for more time off so we can work on it,” Finn finished at the same time.
And just like that, I watched myself become the villain of Finn’s story. The villain isn’t that easy to spot, especially if you always think you’re the hero.
We both stopped, taking in the words. Finn didn’t look up at me, but he shook his head the tiniest bit. “You want to break up?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I answered, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “I don’t think that this is a good place for either of us to be right now.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding curtly, keeping his eyes on the table. He placed his hands on the table and stood up, finally looking at me. “I’m sorry I dragged this relationship on for so long when you obviously weren’t happy anymore. I thought I could fix it.” He turned and all I could do was watch him walk out of the little coffee shop, one he’d probably never return to again.
In real life, the hero and the villain are not so easy to figure out. Sometimes they are the same person, just in different stories.
1
Your dad reads to you every night he’s home
But Mom is the one who is there every night
On days that Dad is away she gives you extra kisses
And leaves her bedroom door open
2
Between Jr High and High School
You spent a lot of nights away from home
Giggling over crushes and gossip
And sharing a bed with your best friend
3
New college students never know how much they can drink
You spend most of the first month tucking in your new friends
Or letting them corral you onto their futon
The boys who stay the night are never there in the morning
4
When you move into your first house with him
He promises to be home every night
After his promotion at work
That promise doesn’t mean as much
5
He reads to the kids every night that he’s home
But you’re the one there every night
On days he’s away you always remember to give extra kisses
And leave your bedroom door open
6
Once the house is empty
Except for the two of you
His promise seems to mean more again
He’s home every night
7
When your mother comes to live with you
Memories of story time and safety rush back to you
This woman made you who you are
So you help her into bed
8
Your mother is gone
As well as your husband
Your kids all live in different states
They have their own children to tuck in
9
You only really feel alone at night
The house is empty except for you
But you haven’t slept alone
In almost sixty years
10
Alone, you look at your wrinkled hands
Wondering when you stopped being sixteen
You tuck yourself into bed
One last time
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