The Price of Broken Glass

Or, where champagne dreams, caviar wishes, and beer budgets collide.

[thepriceofbrokenglass]

"Check, please."

After a night of mayhem, those words were a welcome relief. At least, they were until a party of ten asked for separate checks at the end of their meal. It was the kind of night where you sang birthday song after birthday song to table after table, all of whom were sitting right...

[thepriceofbrokenglass]

Happy Little Toy Monkey

"Check, please."

After a night of mayhem, those words were a welcome relief.  At least, they were until a party of ten asked for separate checks at the end of their meal.  It was the kind of night where you sang birthday song after birthday song to table after table, all of whom were sitting right next to each other.  Of course.  Therefore, it was  also the kind of night where you clapped and smiled, banging your hands together again and again, until you and your coworkers could no longer be distinguished from the happy little toy monkey who eagerly clashed his cymbals together with a clang.  And you did all of this Pacman-like running, bumping into guests and employees at every turn, while making sure to "WOW" your guests.

Every other moment, there was a new table to greet, a glass of water to pour, an entree to fetch, or a problem to fix.  All night long, we had to do all of these at once, with as few mistakes as possible.  It is no wonder, then, that the care to ring every single item accurately under each individual guest, appetizer by appetizer, meal by discounted meal, and drink by 2-for-1 drink was simply not taken.  For the most part, this was done until accuracy succumbed to speed so that orders may be quickly entered.  Who cares, so long as the right food and drinks get to the right table...right?

Between the cymbal-clanging and guest-WOWing, one of the ladies (a generously applied term) from the Party of Ten decided that it would be fun to follow me. Maybe she wanted to see if she could keep up with me as I ran circles that mirrored the patterns created by alien visitors on wheat crops in New Mexico.  Maybe she just wanted to clang along to yet another birthday song.  Yes, that was it!  She felt jealous, left out, and wanted to join in the fun.

Wait.  All she wanted was A1 steak sauce?  She couldn't wait the measly fifteen seconds it took for me to Pacman my way around the maze of tables between us? Clearly, she should rise from the table at which she was seated and wait for me at the stairs.  Indeed, this would make the sauce arrive much faster.  Maybe the sauce would even transport itself via telekinesis, which required her to get up and stare at it. Hard.  That makes sense.

Naturally, it was after ten o'clock, when all of the aforementioned 2-for-1 drinks became discounted.  This meant that one person - the bartender - now had to do double the amount of work, and everything would take twice as long.  I carried beverages to the Party of Ten three at a time.  One mojito remained at the bar.

As I approached with frozen margaritas in hand, She was standing again, walking around, looking for me.  I don't think I was hard to find - I was the happy little table-hopping monkey wearing figure-eights into the carpeting.

"You forgot my mojito,"  She announced.  "I ordered a mojito, and you didn't bring it."

I then held the following mental monologue in my head:

"Well, of course I didn't bring it.  When I woke up this morning, I wasn't an octopus.  I didn't have eight arms.  Did you?  I was human, with two arms?  Were you?  No?  Well, is this a concept you might be able to grasp?  Hey, I think I might know where your mojito is.  It's at the bar! How revolutionary!  Would you like to go get it yourself, since you seem to enjoy walking around our fine establishment so much?  Just follow the yellow brick road of my footsteps on the rug."

Instead, I stared at her, knowing that I witnessing Crazy At Its Best, and said, "I'll be right back with your mojito."

Once her song-and-dance routine was over, the group proceeded to ask for separate checks.  What a joy it became to tap at the monitor, attempting to decide which food-and-drink combination belonged to which guest.  All of the entrees were the exact same price, so that was of no use when pairing one to the other.  Several attempts and numerous receipts later, I gave up and gave them what I felt like giving them:  the check.

Forty-five minutes later, my manager and I were knee-deep in figuring out the bill, as both the computer and our human calculations concluded that $59.10 was still unaccounted for.  Credit card payments were processed, cancelled, and re-processed, one, two, three times.  Some of the members of the party apologized.  And what did she do?  She came back, at the request of her friends, to remind me that she had given me sixty dollars in cash.

"Yes," I responded quietly.  "I have it right here.  There is still money missing."

The group departed, and with my manager's efforts - calling the HelpDesk, obtaining authorization codes and expiration dates - it all worked out.  But not before I threw all of my money at him in frustration, yelled, and apologized:

"Here!  Just take it, I don't want any of it!" I began, and followed with, "That was rude, I was raised better than to throw things at people.  Next time I throw money at you, you'll be stripping."

To be "on the safe side," I was not permitted to charge any of their cards for the tips they had left me.  After all that crop-circling! Instead, my manager took money out of his own wallet and handed it to me.  My eyes teared up as I stuffed it back into his pocket.  What had become of us?

This highly unorchestrated circus of a job had made monkeys of us all.

[thepriceofbrokenglass]

Dancing with Depression

Dating someone with depression is almost exactly as exasperating as attempting to have a deep and meaningful relationship with a brick wall.  (Curious? Try it at your own risk). Many women would argue wryly that this could be true of dating any man, and I would be tempted to agree. However, when said man is also suffering from depression, life, at times, becomes exponentially more frustrating.  Quite often, it feels like doing simple math, yet arriving at the wrong conclusion – how could two plus two ever equal five?? Or, perhaps more accurately, dating a man with depression often feels like attending your dance class’s rehearsal every afternoon, nailing the motions perfectly, practicing the steps on your walk home from school, and when opening night arrives, you mess up, moonwalking instead when you should have been kicking a can-can.  No, no, no!  Why are you doing this?  Why is this happening? We’ve been through this a million times already! you say to yourself, disappointed at your failure.

Soon, you find yourself tip-toeing through life, lest you make another misstep. I have decided to share my experience in this matter with others, in the hopes of helping women in similar situations as they sort through scores of confusing, unsettling emotions.  Most importantly, I want to let women know that this time, it really isn’t you – it’s them.  But all is not lost, things can get better, and there are steps you can take, both individually and as a couple.

Depressed people, especially men, aren’t interested in anything.  Keep this in mind at all times!  Depressed men can easily pass for non-depressed men.  They sit on the couch, hands down their pants, Al Bundy – style.  When it’s time to do something else, the Pulling of the Teeth begins, and you wonder briefly if pulling teeth would be more fun, and if it would be a crime if you were to pull his.  Again, this can be said of many men, and many men are not depressed.  

I am the type of person who gets excited about everything. We’re baking cookies? Yaaaaayyyy!  The sun is shining? Woo-hoo!  I just saved a bunch of money on my car insurance by switching to GEICO?  Yippee!  You would think I had won the lottery, or found a cure for cancer. Okay, while I might not be as ridiculous as all of that (I hope I’m not!), I truly do take joy in what I choose to do in my free time.  I mean, isn’t that the point?  If the experience or chosen activity happens to be a new, first-time adventure, I am twice as excited, a fact which can be evidenced in my frequent smiles and child-like gasps throughout the day, and seen in subsequent photos.  In short, I am very focused on the energy and emotions produced by an event.  I like to fully live, and to fully feel.

For a depressed person, the prospect of either of those two things – living or feeling – seems daunting, at best.  Depressed people aren’t happy to have woken up, they aren’t raring to go when activities like hiking or going to the gym are suggested.  Depressed people simply don’t want to do anything. When my boyfriend and I went pumpkin-picking recently, I conveyed to my best friend my disappointment at his dull reaction. 

“Of course, he loved the wine-tasting in the barn, when we got to sit on our asses and drink,” I complained to her.

“I’m going to tell you a secret,” she responded.

“What?” I asked.

“No guy wants to pick pumpkins,” she concluded.  “Ever.”                               

I knew that she had a point.  Maybe it was just “a guy thing” to hate the pumpkin-picking excursion.  But, I noticed that his reactions – or lack thereof – were pretty consistent no matter what we did.  Cooking bacon-wrapped filets and mashed potatoes (his favorite) together yielded close to zero enthusiasm.  As did other activities, including going out to dinner, strolling on the boardwalk, attending friends’ parties, and having sex with lacy lingerie. I began to feel like he just didn’t want to do those things with me.

Stop blaming yourself. This is of paramount importance.  Ladies, let’s not kid ourselves.  As much as we would like to think we are the be-all, end-all, center of our man’s universes, let’s face reality: we are not.  Men may not always say much, but there are a gazillion things on their minds besides us: difficulty at work, the (insert home repair project) that still needs to be finished (or started), the friend he hasn’t spoken to in a while because once-close friend is expecting a baby with his wife, bills that need paying (or burning), TV shows he once watched religiously but not DVRs in the hopes of “one day” having time, scratching, farting.  Then, ladies, there is you, and what he can do to make you happy.  His thoughts typically end there, with no resolution, because he doesn’t have a clue as to how to make himself happy, so how in the world can he please you?

In some ways, men and depressed men are just like us. They worry about all of their obligations and commitments, wondering how or if they will ever be able to balance it all. Depressed men differ in one key way, however: they lack (or simply choose not to use) the emotional tools necessary to identify and acknowledge the root of their particular depression, and  become unable to separate themselves from their depression long enough to sit back and enjoy cooking the bacon-wrapped filet or carving the wretched pumpkin. This is why depressed men are such a challenge for us.  In our quest to answer why, and our desire to have a solution, we erroneously blame ourselves.  We must never, ever, ever blame ourselves for the cause of someone else’s depression.  Chemical imbalances, deep-rooted insecurities, and dissatisfaction at work – a biggie for men – are the usual suspects.  And, ladies, if we could really somehow be the direct cause of the depression of our men, then something is seriously wrong, and the relationship was probably unhealthy from the start.

Alter your expectations.  I recently read a fun meme on Instagram that said, “Keep your standards high and your heels higher.”  Or something like that.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with having high standards and fancying yourself a princess.  But pair that princess mentality with practicality.  If you’re reading this, you’ve probably matured and adjusted your expectations of men and relationships many times throughout the course of your adult life.  You definitely enjoy attention and the occasional present or flowers, but you’re more than capable of buying things for yourself, thank you very much.  That’s great! There should be more women like you.

If your man is depressed and you’re still riding around on your high horse, SLOW DOWN IMMEDIATELY.  Stop expecting unrealistic things.  Love yourself; learn to do for yourself rather than expecting a man to constantly worship the ground your manicured toes walk on.  Then, learn to appreciate what he does do for you.  Believe it or not, depressed men are trying.  They are trying to be appreciative, to remember to buy roses once in a while, to take you out to dinner, to send you sweet text messages to brighten your day.  So, appreciate these small gestures.  Remember that for a depressed man, putting on pants and brushing his teeth is a struggle.  When he makes the extra effort to do things you like, consider what that took for him.  Yes, we deserve the world.  No, it shouldn’t be tug-of-war to receive a nice text message, or to be told the truth that yes, he is at the bar with his buddies.  But remember that this man is not your average dude.  This man is depressed, which means he feels like less of who he really is, and lacks the energy and enthusiasm for daily life. 

By all means, refrain from inflammatory statements such as, “You never take me to the movies anymore!”  Instead, say, “I feel like we haven’t been to the movies in a while.  That used to be our favorite thing to do together.  I would love it if you would treat me to a movie date tonight.”  Reward him with a smile when he replies with a nonchalant, “Okay.”  And be patient if you don’t get the response you had hoped for – tomorrow is another day.

If you invite him out to go pumpkin-picking, do both of you a favor and eschew any and all expectations.  Don’t overly concern yourself with whether or not he laughs or smiles, or how many times, or why he isn’t.  Do what you are there to do – simply live in the moment by enjoying, rather than analyzing, the day.  Avoid asking if he likes whatever the chosen activity is, or why he doesn’t.  Don’t expect him to jump up and down at the same things that excite you – you are different people, and you are allowed to have different, even dull, reactions to different things.  If you expect him to act or behave a certain way when doing a certain thing, you are ruining the experience for everyone involved.  And if you make a habit of this, he will notice.  Great, he will think to himself.  She wants me to act like I’m having the time of my life.  Ugh, I have to pretend to be happy. He can barely find it within himself to smile.  By setting up these expectations, you are setting the stage for disaster and only succeeding in making him dread the occasion, and deepening his depression, as he once again feels he is a failure to you.

He isn’t doing it on purpose.  Honest.   Depressed men don’t mean to be depressed.  No one wakes up saying, “Today I want to be a miserable bastard of a human being.”  They don’t truly want to be distant, aloof, gloomy, or uninterested.  On the contrary, they would love to be vibrant, and vital (like you), and be able to feel something, anything, other than depressed.  Unfortunately, he just can’t find the motivation within him to do so.

After a while, when it seems as though a man is doing little to change his state of depression, it can feel like depression is a choice.  You begin to suspect that it is a cop-out, an excuse to get out of attending yet another family function.  You think that he just doesn’t care enough about you to try to make things better.  You’re partially correct, but the person he doesn’t care enough about isn’t you – it’s himself.

Try to help the depressed man in your life seek solutions for what he is experiencing.  If he is unwilling to seek professional help or take prescriptions mood equalizers, don’t fret.  Research other options.  Maybe he needs more time to himself.  Help him re-structure his schedule so that he has a few hours to himself, once a week, for what he wants to do.  Don’t worry about not spending time together.  He can eventually include you in his alone time, even if it means hours of Xbox together. During that time, leave.  Use that time for an extended trip to Target, or catch up with girlfriends.  The girls are all busy?  No worries, head to Barnes and Noble, pick up a magazine and a fluffy-looking Starbucks creation, and sit down.  It’s incredibly exhausting to date/live with/be married to a depressed person.  Give yourself a well-deserved break.

Help him figure out the changes he needs to make in order to be happy, and help develop a clear plan of action.  Making a list of Things That Need to be Changed may seem like a good idea to a woman, but list-making often overwhelms men; as they realize that everything is wrong, they only become further depressed.  Instead, ask him to name the number one thing he wishes he could change.  If he answers, “Work,” help him figure out if there are things he can do to make work better.  Can he take a walk and clear his head during lunch?  Can he speak to co-workers and superiors regarding issues he is experiencing?  Explore every angle.  Maybe it is a job he absolutely loathes but financially needs.  Work is a HUGE part of who we are, and therefore can influence many other areas of our lives.  Maybe he needs to work less, or work more.  Perhaps it is time for a job change altogether.  Changing jobs or careers is never easy.  What will his exit strategy be?  How can you help plan for a smoother transition? Assist in preparing a budget and a timeline.  Support him if he wants to go back to school.  But please, don’t overwhelm him with a list – call it a “plan” and he’ll be more receptive.

Remember why you fell in love with him in the first place. Making lists of things that are wrong can be very depressing in itself.  On the contrary, making a list of things that are right can be very uplifting.  Remind yourself of all of the reasons you are with him.  Was it his smile, the first time you met at the restaurant where he worked?  Was it the fact you both love to write?  When you are done, think of all of the reasons you love him now.  Is he hard-working?  Is he there for you when you really need him to be?  Keep going until you have 10 items on your list.  Then, share the list with him.  It certainly won’t cure him of his depression, but it will make him feel good about himself, and will serve as reminder as you both tango your way through his illness, that he is truly blessed to have you in his life.

*Image Credit: higherperspective.com*

[thepriceofbrokenglass]

Letter from a Writer to a Non-Writer

Dear Non-Writer:

I am motivated by recent, recurring events to write you this letter in the hopes of shedding some light on The Life of a Writer, and gaining some understanding.  The following describes the latest of many interactions with Non-Writers:

Somewhere deep in the misty cockles of my consciousness, an urgent, repetitive tone radiated through the swirling galaxy of my thoughts.  In reality, it was three o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and the phone was ringing – again – for the third time in less than an hour.  I groaned as the tail end of a train of thought retreated its way back, back, into the recesses of my mind, never again to see the light of day.  The phone continued to ring. 

Sighing, I pushed my chair away from the dining room table, where I sat with my laptop, attempting to write. I decided to end this, once and for all, by disconnecting the house phone, equal parts frustrated by the unnecessary interruption and baffled by the notion of someone using a land line to reach someone else in this day and age.  As the phone began to ring once more, I allowed my wretched curiosity to take over: I answered.

The voice on the other end was frantic and harried.  “What are you doing?” the called rushed, sounding winded.  Before I could even say hello or receive any sort of introduction, she barreled onward. 

“Because I need a ride,” she continued rapid-fire, speaking in a staccato rhythm not unlike iambic pentameter.  The caller was my cousin, and she having another “emergency,” which was cousin-speak for “dramatic yet easily avoidable personal situation, which may only be rectified with the involvement of others.”  In short, a Colossal Waste of Time was just about to commence.

“I’m writing,” I answered firmly.

“Oh,” she responded with a brief moment of sanity before pressing the issue, detailing all of the reasons why I “needed” to stop everything I was doing in order to chauffer her wherever she needed to go Right NOW. Her argument was anemic, but her performance was compelling.

“So, you see? You understand now?” she wheezed in conclusion.  “I’m glad I caught you when you weren’t busy working or something.”

I pulled the phone away from my head, held it out in front of me, and stared incredulously into the holes of the handset’s mouthpiece.  Had I really heard correctly?  Did she just ask me for a ride to nowhere, to meet the Wizard of Oz for all I knew, because I “wasn’t busy working or something?” Not busy working?  No, I must be mistaken.  I wanted to tell her that maybe if she was “working or something,” she wouldn’t have time for this week’s episode of Days of Our Lives.  Instead, she was Young and Restless, and I held my tongue.

“I am busy,” I quietly reminded her.  “I’m writing.”

“Oh, well…um…I mean, if that’s busy for you, then, I understand,” she stuttered.

I was incensed at her insinuation that because I was writing, I couldn’t possibly be busy, and infuriated by the thought that the words “writing” and “busy” were not synonyms.  Further, to speculate whether or not writing was considered “working” by others was unconscionable blasphemy. I bid her farewell, wished her good luck on her mission, and returned angrily to my laptop.

How dare she? I wondered in disbelief.  Doesn’t she know? I sighed again and returned my fingertips to the keyboard.  Unfortunately, I began to realize, her view is one commonly held and accepted by others.  Hence the composition this letter.

A popular Volkswagen commercial tells viewers that, “On the road of life, there are passengers, and there are drivers.”   The familiar ad concludes by affirming, carpe diem-style, that drivers are wanted.  The world we live in is similarly divided: there are Writers, and there are Non-Writers. For Writers, it often feels as though we are outnumbered by Non-Writers who just don’t get it.

Writers and Non-Writers do share a great deal of common ground – both have work, families, and responsibilities; both are juggling too many commitments and dropping too many balls; both wonder if (not when) they will ever catch a break.  As a Writer, I am doubly doomed.  My day consists of work, which I define as any activity other than writing which pays my bills and occupies my writing hands for the majority of the day.  The other half of my day is spent on my life’s work, which I define as my calling, my true and sole purpose/gift/downfall in this earthly life, rendering any and all forms of work tedious and unfulfilling.  Yet, work is an evil necessary to support my life’s work.  The goal of any writer, of course, is to mesh the two, so that there is no distinction between one’s work and one’s life work, and to eliminate the need for work by drawing income from one’s (life) work.

This is easier said than done.  In order to be successful as a writer, one must have many things: faith, hope, a prayer (or ten million), patience, time, and time management skills.  Many say that it’s not what you know, but who you know, that it helps to have industry connections.  (I’ll let you know how that goes, if I ever make any). Above all, one must be able to produce a properly edited manuscript containing within its pages A Good Story, unless, of course, one is a reality TV star. In which case, you can write anything at all because someone will publish it,  people will buy it, read it, trash-talk it on Facebook, and otherwise tear it apart, utilizing hashtags such as “#newcoaster” at the end of their posts.  But it won’t matter, because you are celebrity, everyone already paid you even more money to waste their time reading and trashing the trash you probably didn’t even write.  And you can add to your list of stellar accomplishments the fact that you have published a “novel.”

 The Writer’s struggle doesn’t end there – finally completing  A Good Story is only the first chapter of publishing.  In order to get published, one must then compose a succinct yet compelling query letter, in which one solicits (begs) a literary agent  to shop his or her (life’s) work to a publisher (God) in the hopes that one publisher (God) will give the Writer’s work the chance of a lifetime (miracle granted). J.K. Rowling, it is said, underwent this painful please-publish-me process no less than forty-six times before achieving worldwide fame and fortune.

In between all of this, the working and the life-working, the writing and the re-writing, there is Life, and Life is busy.  There are cars to drive, beers to pour, meals to cook, laundry to wash, diapers to change, hair to brush.  And in Life there lies Inspiration, at precisely the moment when the Writer must function as a Non-Writer, put down the pen, and work.  The rare opportunity of free time, then, is one which must be cherished and maximized in order to take advantage of Life’s Inspiration.

So no, Beloved Cousin, I cannot give you a ride, even though it is an “emergency.”  No, Best Friend, I cannot pick you up from JFK at – gasp! – three a.m. aka Peak Writing Hour.  No, I cannot take your mother to the doctor or your dog to the groomer.  I am Writing.  I am (life) Working. Before I was life-working, I have actually been writing (mentally) all day, every day, although my hands were occupied not with a pen but by Work, the bill-paying task du jour.  Please understand that this, too, is work, even if it is not currently paid work.  Therefore, please respect my time both at work and at (life) work. Just as I cannot bombard you with ridiculous requests while you are working, please be mindful and refrain from such interruptions.  I am not selfish; I am not choosing my “hobby” over you.  I am simply working. And God (publisher)-willing, may I always be.

Sincerely,

The Writer

[thepriceofbrokenglass]

The Writer

Writing is, perhaps, the most difficult of the professions.  This is because of the incessant nature of the occupation, its pesky persistence, continual inconvenience, and its insistence upon interruption and instant gratification.  It is the one occupation from which there are no breaks, only round-the-clock, 24/7, 365, work.  It is oddly similar to continuously having the urge to use the bathroom, and insanely more annoying.

The best likening, then, would be a comparison to leaky bladder syndrome. Words swirl around a writer’s head, day in and day out, leaking their dripping way out of the afflicted writer’s brain, down his arm, and onto a single sheet of paper (usually a napkin or the back of a receipt), by way of a pen in hand, or fingertips at a keyboard.  Many are fated to merely be crumpled and flushed forever away in sheer disgust. That is, if The Writer is lucky enough to relieve himself before the leakiness inevitably evaporates or explodes.  Not to worry – either way, there will always be more.  Of course, this will only occur when it probably shouldn’t.  Never does this level of literary saturation occur if The Writer happens to already be seated at a computer or a desk of some sort, with the ill-fated intention of “writing.”  The Writer could have written before leaving the house, but he didn’t have to write then. Chances are, if one needs to write, it is at the exact moment when one cannot and certainly should not: frequently when driving, often while on line at the grocery store, occasionally when one is attempting to apply for a “real” job, and always, always when drunk.

Other frustrating moments of irriation – often mistaken for inspiration – include those during which one really should be doing laundry, while watching a movie with one’s allegedly significant other, or when going out to dinner with friends or – even better – when going out to dinner with those whom one barely knows.  That’s always fun for the ever-tortured writer.  As if scribbling notes on a sticky attached to your steering wheel while at a red light, pen cap in mouth, eyes frantically flipping back and forth between the writer/driver’s chicken scratch and the light that threatens to turn green the one time you don’t want it to…dammit, can I just finish this thought?? I really need to start using that Google voice feature on my phone!!..Yes, if only stopping at red lights could be the end of it.  No, now The Writer has to delicately, nervously reach for a napkin, a business card, anything, on which words may be written.  All the while, the writer’s eye contact remains focused on the other guests seated across the table, making sure never to lower his gaze to the scrap of paper at his hand, lest he alert the attention of the others.  Yes, all this, and a polite nod, as he attempts to follow the useless dinner conversation while penning an outline for his next great novel.

“What are you doing?”  The question is asked gently, with mild curiosity.  The inane conversation has stopped, and all eyes are trained on The Writer.

“Oh, sorry.  Nothing, just writing myself a note so I don’t forget my doctor’s appointment tomorrow,” The Writer responds quickly, tucking the note into a lapel pocket, or a wallet, or clutch purse.

“Don’t you just hate that?”  remarks the youngest, dumbest, drunkest, prettiest guest at the table.  “That always happens to me!” she squeaks, which is followed by a giggle, and erupts quickly into all-out raucous laughter enjoyed by all.

Phew, The Writer thinks.  His secret is still safe.

[thepriceofbrokenglass]

He loved her. She had come out of nowhere, crept under his skin, vaulted over the walls which guarded his most inner being, and had landed gracefully on the other side, balance intact. Breathing new life into his defective heart, she resuscitated him. She flowed quietly through his veins,...

[thepriceofbrokenglass]

WHAT MAKES YOU FEEL BETTER WHEN YOU ARE IN A BAD MOOD?

Food. Friends. Drinks. My cat, Pepper.

[thepriceofbrokenglass]

Quid Pro Quo

He loved her.  She had come out of nowhere, crept under his skin, vaulted over the walls which guarded his most inner being, and had landed gracefully on the other side, balance intact.  Breathing new life into his defective heart, she resuscitated him. She flowed quietly through his veins, awakening each part of him with the unexpected touch of her love. Permeating the membranes of his soul, she settled into the marrow of his bones and the forefront of his existence.  It was in those places that she remained.  Within him, he carried her everywhere.

She loved him, too.  He brought with him a potent mixture of chaos and calm.  The former she grasped readily – entropy was her forte.  However, she did not understand the peace which gradually filled her life.  Stretching across the horizon of her thoughts, he lay before her like a vast ocean, the radiant hope of his love twirling across its shimmering surface.  Never before had she navigated these waters, yet she swiftly learned their turbulent tendencies, plotting the predictable patterns of peaks and troughs. At times, like a rolling tide, he tauntingly swept in, lapping softly at the sands of her shore, only to draw back into oblivion. And always, he returned with a vengeance. Washing over her, he flash-flooded her, deluding her with a deluge of dreams, and drenching her in desire.  She tumbled, swept off her feet by the sudden surge of emotion.  Each time, as the tide rolled out to sea, he took with him a piece of her, until she began to fear erosion.  When he returned, he restored her coastline, shifting sand and depositing the treasures of his ocean, scattering shards of broken shells and messages in bottles.    With each change of the tide, the loathing had lessened, and she began to see within herself the striking siren to whom he had fallen prey.  Thus, a volatile stability was born.  And she loved him.

In the inescapable silence which they had once avoided, they heard each other.  As the tide drifted towards her, he carried her name in whispers.  And when the waves retreated, the longings of her soul echoed from afar.  He saw only her, and she only him, in the bottled messages which they carefully uncorked.  Piecing together broken seashells and delicate, colored glass, they created a beautiful, fragile mosaic picture.  Passion and turbulence invigorated him; serenity had befallen her.  Resisting the rip current of the undertow, they remained afloat, accepting in silence that their only choice was not to sink, but to swim, sometimes against the tide.  As conjoint life preservers, they did together what they could not do alone: they prevented each other from drowning.

[thepriceofbrokenglass]