Hello Again

She looks at him, the time between them stands still, lengthening. Has seconds really turned into minutes, perhaps even hours? She’s wondering now if he’s still thinking the same things about her as he once said. Words that he truthfully told her, things that she can’t believe ever came from his mouth. It was easier without them, yes, but it’s what she wanted to hear Afterwards she laughs at herself. Is it what they always say, be careful what you wish for?

He looks at her, she’s beautiful, and he wonders how he was ale to be away from her for so long. Her blue eyes look right at him, and he feels as if he needs to sit down if not just for a second; she’s knocked him back. God, what was he thinking, adolescent make the mind absent? Now he’s jealous as she said she would be, but there’s no reason for her to be, not yet, maybe not ever. He so badly wants to brush his hand across her check, kiss her perhaps, but he settles for a friendly embrace. He holds her tight as she does him, and he touches hr hair, and she whispers something to him. A comment about how good it is to see him again. To her he feels inviting and strong, holding her.

When she pulls away from him she smiles, but they don’t let go of each other. Each of them says something, but neither of them know what words have actually come out perhaps nice to see you, you look good, or maybe even I want you? They’re too busy looking at each other to even really care.

How many years has it been?

They wonder, but don’t calculate the time, it’s not important. The only time that is important is then and there. Both of them feel young just like it was before, the time when they were alone together. It wasn’t much, should have been more, but regretting takes up too much precious time. None of that is needed. There is only so much time left before he has to leave again, before she’ll return to her life, a life without him. They’ll talk , and he'll hear her laugh, something he has never forgotten, and she’ll remember the nodding of his head as she talks about the past. They reminisce about each other, and what they remember, smiles, laughs, and even movements, and a day, a drive, slipping closer to him like he wanted. It was sweet, a flirting that made her smile. Then he kissed her, and she thought about him alone that only he would ever make her feel whole or make those butterflies dance in her stomach. That night it was dark, the light was how crazy she was for him. Again he feels the fool, and she feels overwhelmed, almost like clinging to him as if it will make more time. It’s about her though, and he makes sure of it.

When they part, it’s all over. Not their friendship or their feelings for each other, but the day is done their time together is over. To each other no one will fill that place. There’s something between them and its more than just distance. She tells him to close his eyes, and he’s reluctant, joking with her, but he does, he’ll always do what she asks. She kisses him. God, it’s a sweet reminder, the touch of her lips on his. It’s a kick in the gut, his regret, and when she pulls away he looks at her. Neither of them say anything about the kiss, and he know it will remain another unspoken connection between them. No on will have me like you do; no one will have me, only you.

She Lives Perfectly- Meeting the Anti-Hero

Alas, I will have to suspend the writing of the rest of my story. For I have to be truthful, it's not just mine, but my husband's as well. One day though, it will all be on paper, the honest truth about our stubbornly beautiful true love. For now, I will post what I have...and then wait for my co-producer.


Spring had come in full bloom by then, and she got up in his truck, feeling the heat rush to her face. Of course, from emotions more than the atmosphere. She was a skinny girl, and it didn't take long from the heat on her face to wash over her body. The slam of the door caught her attention and she smiled, feeling him beside her. The roar of the truck as he turned over the key made her laugh ever so slightly and by God, she was so nervous. Had she really looked him over till just recently?

He was, built to be admired, though she wouldn't fully understand the extent of how he was built until later. She loved teasing him, putting her hands to his chest, so she could feel the strength within his muscles. He was a football player and an avid sportsman. There was something about him that drew her closer and yet, kept her at an arms length. He smiled at her and she thought, "my God, I am all he thinks about. He really cares for me, yes, he wants me".

They had spoken quite often, in Biology class together, and a few times in English class, but it was mostly that second hour of class that they really seemed to connect. However, that was last year and it was a new year of school, so close to being over with their high school lives. There was a wild ride a head of her and she didn’t even have the slightest clue. They began down the dirt roads and a few paved, and she was feeling like the prettiest girl alive. Ah, that high school crush and the relationships that seem like the world.

P.s. photo is of my uncle Gene and Aunt Rose (they are in a better place)

She Lives Perfectly - You Think You Know

I don't suppose there is anything that would make this time any easier, being away from him day in and day out. It's only months, not likes it's years. Not like it's centuries apart from each other where we find each other again after many long tumultuous years like in a fancy romance novel. Of course there is something about our love that often reminds me of a romance novel and I smile at that thought of my husband as prince charming. And he is, my prince. It was years between us finding each other again, not centuries of course, I don't think i could have survived centuries without him. He's perfect. He's perfectly lovable and stubborn and he has a smile that lights up a room. Of course, he has a sense of humor that makes me wanna strangle him sometimes, in love of course.

It's usually hardest at night. It's then that I have to crawl into the cold covers alone, feeling nothing but air next to my feet and what's the body beside me? It's not human, but a pillow that I sometimes roll on to, as if to give myself the sense that I am not alone. I'm not, not really in the spiritual sense, but when my human emotions kick in, I feel horribly alone. It was just yesterday, while lying in bed, that I thought of how he would be home soon and our daughter would be turning two. I smile and then feel bad and then smile again at the thought of her with him, wrapping him ever so gentle around her pinkie. Ha, that rough and tough man has his world wrapped into two children and a wife, how different from his earlier goals in life.

You wouldn't imagine the story of the anit-perfect man (reminds me of an anit-hero) and the girl he fell in love with, back in the small town that sophomore year of school. I can't begin to get into his mind, but as a woman, I imagine him loving her at first sight. That girl who was so unhappy to be in a new school away from the one that had offered her so many opportunities, or so she thought. I think back to that girl now and think, how lucky you are? You didn't know the love of your life had looked at you, in that small school you disliked so much. AH, the opportunity I could have missed, that man I am in love with, devastated to be away from and yet, here I am again, away from him, my heart devastated but my will strong.

I thought I knew what I wanted and I thought I knew all about the world I was going to learn. Truth is, looking back, I hadn't the first clue about myself. I met him and hadn't the slightest clue he had his eyes on me. It wasn't until years later that I heard from our mutual friend that he was interested in me, and followed us around to gain but a second of attention. I'm sure my sweet husband would laugh at that bit of information. I beleive the words were, "followed around like a lost puppy", and yes those are not my words. I couldn't imagine my sweet husband as a lost puppy, a confident bull dog maybe, but puppy, I laugh at the thought.

So the story of two unlike and yet so likely lovers begins. What follows may have happened and maybe not, but the feelings, the love is real. The other half of this relationships knows what has happened back in our younger days better than I do. He comes up with more memories than I know are true or false. Of course, my sweet baby wouldn't lie to me and I know that, so I blush when he tells me of things I did or didn't do of the way he felt back then. He fell for her then she fell for him then he ran away, not literally, but emotionally and mentally and she moved on, or did she?

India

*Draft

My mother was a mixed ball of beauty, heart, and dreams. She had always wanted to be the most beautiful woman in the room, but never wanted to admit such a fact. To me, she always was and would always be that lady who could cook a dinner and still look all prim and proper without a hair out of place. My mother was from California and daddy, he was from the south, a southern gentleman. They had met during a college trip to Mexico where they were building houses for the “less fortunate”. It was an instant attraction, and with my mother’s American beauty and my father’s southern charm, being half white and half black, my mother couldn’t keep away. She was a free spirited woman and my father was someone she thought she would only dream of meeting.

It was in my parent’s destiny to live in the south together, down in Tennessee where my father’s family was placed. He was born in Nashville, and raised outside of the music city, and so he seemed destined to live there the rest of his life, and he was content in his home, a family home in the country. I remember his hunting dogs and the sound of a shot gun on Sunday morning before church. I had come to love that noise, signaling that it was time for me to wake and get ready for church. I loved my father.

It was the seventies when I was born, the year 1973 to be exact, and by the time I was born, my parents had been married for five years already. I was their first girl, and my mother was ecstatic when I was put in her arms. Now, being from a spiritual family, my mother believed I was special. The numbers seven and three were very important to her; they were her lucky numbers, and both being present at the same time was more than enough for my mother to dub me her special child, her last of three. However, upon looking down at me she thought her name of Rebecca wasn’t well suited to my dark looking skin nor was it worthy of how special I was.
My name, India Marie Richardson, was a title I disliked more than anything growing up. I was a child of the south. I wanted my name to be Susan or Elizabeth, but that wouldn’t be. While other girls, blonde girls with mothers who had sound mind to name their children from names in the Bible, I was named for a third world country. Why?

It was clear, growing up, that I had most of my father’s genes in me. I had dark eyes and curly black hair that I loved even though most girls in my class had smooth straight hair that was usually pushed back by a head band. I wasn’t bothered by my looks even though I had wondered, quiet often, what it would be like to look like my mother, but I was so close to my father and his looks made me feel like part of him. At the age of ten my father had even asked me to join him on his Sunday morning shoot outs. He hadn’t even invited my brothers and they were older than me, owned their own guns too. However, my mother was against me owning a gun, being a girl and all. I shot my father’s every time, and little did my mother know that being allowed to do this was better than owning my own gun any day. I was previlaged.

“How is a girl supposed to be a proper southern lady if she’s shooting a gun?” my mother would ask.

How was I supposed to be a normal girl with a name like India? I was named after a country that I knew nothing about. For crying out loud, it was a country that I couldn’t be farther from. I’m an American not an Indian, a mix of American cultures that my father always told me to be proud of.

The first time my mother truly understood how much my name bugged me was when, in the fourth grade, she saw my school papers. There wasn’t another child in my class that could compare in names when it came to me. No other person was named after a city or town or even country for that matter, and I wanted to keep that a secret as much as possible. Silly notion since everyone in the class had remembered my name since the first day of school, but that didn’t stop me from trying.

“What’s this…India?” my mother asked one evening after looking in my backpack, a pretty purple bag with strawberry short cake on the front. She was holding one of my math papers in her hand, looking at it like she had found something so terrible, and she seemed so confused by what she was looking at.

I had looked up from my snack of crackers and milk. I told her that it was a paper I had got back in class that day. I knew what she was specifically looking at, the name at the top of the paper. We had gone over capitals in the class over the week, so the first name that came to my mind when turning in that paper was not India, but Topeka the capital of Kansas. It was something I had done since the beginning of the school year. It was no big deal to me, and my teacher had always known it was my paper anyway, but to my mother it was like some sort of crime, some sort of wound inflicted on her. I didn’t understand why she was so upset, so quiet after setting down my paper. She knew nothing about India, was never there, but to her the name was so important, such a part of her that this new found information had really hurt her.

Then came middle school, my first dance, and I allowed my mother to pick out a pink dress, which I loved because I was sure to be noticed. After all, if I was anything like my mother a man like my father would fall in love with me instantly. My father handed everything to her like she was a queen, and I believe to him she was, as my father looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. She stood behind me as I sat at her mirror and she put my hair up, wrapping hair around her fingers to make curls around my face.

“Why did you name me India?” I asked, taking her powder puff in my hand, the dust coming up close to my nose, a sweet perfume smell. I felt the urge to sneeze, but held it in, feeling my eyes water.

“Well,” she said, twirling a curl around her finger. My father stood in the door for a second, admiring my mother, and he must not have known that I saw him smile and shake his head. “When you were born you looked like an Indian and you were the most beautiful baby, the Indian princess I could never be, so it just seemed fitting.”

I wasn’t happy with this answer. I should have been, but I wasn’t. The look of my hair was very princess like and my dress was perfect for my growing body, but an Indian princess, that's corny.

Fifteen years later, my father would call in the middle of the night to inform me that my mother had died, cancer. Thank God, she had see me get married to a man who, she told me, looked at me like I was the only woman in the room. He should, I thought. I had thought of my father’s calm attitude and grace under pressure when I had considered who I was going to marry. He wasn’t a college professor like my father, but a doctor, who met when my car had broken down in the parking lot of the college we both attended. He was a southern gentleman and we had hit it off right away as he fixed my car, finishing up just as the down pour of rain had started. He followed me in a pick up truck to the closest restaurant, and I bought him a thank you dinner.

“What’s your name?” I rememberng him asking, sweetly, very gentleman like with a courtious smile.

I was hesitant like telling him my name would change that smile on his face. “India,” I said and he held out his hand.

“Carson,” he said, and I placed my hand in his. That was the beginning of us, of Carson and India.

He was tall, and blonde, and I thought of sand and Carson City, Nevada. I told him this one night, the third date I believe, and he laughed. His mother’s home town was Carson City, and his name came from that place. I felt a sting of pink humiliation on my cheeks, but he kissed me and all was well again.

After two years of dating, camping trips when we could get away, and of my father and him hitting it off behind shot guns, it was time to settle down. I knew that he was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. My father had said he was content with my choice of a soul mate, but would always claim me as his baby girl. Carson asked me to marry him in April and we were married by fall the same year. Just a month later, he began his internship at a hospital just outside of Gulf Port, Mississippi. We moved soon after our wedding, and my mother looked as if there had been a death in the family. She was proud of my choices as I was proud of her for not balling like a baby when we said our good-byes.

Carson had told me that he would say my name out loud when he was alone. He said it was a way of visualizing me when he was lonely and needed to see my face. To him India had become some sort of mantra that he would repeat when he needed something to get him by on the long nights we were away from each other. He thought my name was sexy and after our first child, after hearing him say I love you India, the mother of my child, I knew something was different in me.

I learned my mother had cancer just after Rachel was born, but my mother had tried to keep it from me like she was protecting me. I took the trip back to Nashville, Rachel and I, as it was hard for Carson to get away because of the hospital. I didn’t mind though, and we both knew it was probably best that I spend time with Rachel and my mother alone.

The first time I saw her again, after learning she was sick, I thought of how graceful she looked in her robe and how beautiful she still seemed with a pale face and dark circles under eyes. She took Rachel in her arms and I saw this light in her that I could imagine being there when I was put in her arms. Rachel hardly had any hair, looked mostly like her father I believed, but my mother said she saw me in her.

“Why’d you name her Rachel?”

I took my daughter in my arms, and held her close, rocking her back and forth. Couldn’t my mother understand why I named her Rachel? “Because I saw her and thought of the most beautiful woman I had ever known, the mother I can only dream of being.”

My mother looked like she was going to cry, but she pulled together a smile instead. She held out her arms to hold Rachel again, and I handed my daughter over to the safest hands I had ever known.

For the most of my life I had thought that I was so much like my father; his looks had seemed to dominate me. I had only dreamt of being like my mother, but I had never admitted so until recently. I had dreamt of a name that would seem more like my mother’s common name of Rachel, but I didn’t understand that it wasn’t the name that made my mother. A common Bible name meant nothing when describing my out of the ordinary mother.

The Sunday after my mother’s funeral and before I returned home I went out with my father, holding up the shot gun to take my first shot when I noticed something I had never once seen on his face, tears. He was crying. After seeing those tears I understood that he had known, from the start, that my mother was something else. He loved my mother, had made her his life, and that’s what it was all about in the end. I smiled, took my shot then looked back to my childhood home. Part of me had expected to see her standing in her church dress, waiting for us to finish so we could go inside and get ready. I loved my father, looked like him, but I am my mother’s daughter too. I am India, the baby she held and loved, the baby she had named because she thought I was beautiful. She, a woman of infinite beauty, had thought I was beautiful.

For our ten year anniversary Carson convinced me to go to my name sake, and we vacationed in India. That’s not the first time I got the look from my husband, but the first time I had cried because I knew that I was his life, and then I understood.

I Have To Begin With This

This song holds a reminder of what life once was.

She Has No Time (Keane)

You think your days are uneventful
And no one ever thinks about you
She goes her own way
She goes her own way

You think your days are ordinary
And no one ever thinks about you
But we're all the same
And she can hardly breathe without you

She says she has no time for you now
She says she has no time

Think about the lonely people
And think about the day she found you
Or lie to yourself
And see it all dissolve around you

She says She has no time for you now
She says she has no time for you now
She says she has no time
She says she has no time

Lonely people tumble downwards
And my heart opens up to you
When she says she has no time for you now
She says she has no time for you now
She says she has no time


P.S. There is a reason for the display of this song.

It's Amazing How it Rained

It's amazing how it rained, the day I parted from you.

It's amazing how the airport seat felt even colder than before yet I dressed warmer.

My eyes hurt. Just like my heart, pounding in my chest of this to be a dream.

It's amazing how it rained, as I fought so hard to be strong.

It was in the cards, the trip back to that place.

It's amazing how you smile when I know you're feeling sad too. It's no wonder you're the man I am drawn too.

It's amazing how you and I are together. I feel like we can take on the world.

The sound of the man on the intercom, calling your name the first time. How ready you seemed to go, and how unready I was to let you go. But you came back to me.

It's amazing that those minutes talking to you went by life fleeting seconds.

I kissed your lips. I did it again, I said good-bye and I love you in the same sentence. I watched as you boarded a *plan I was not allowed on.

It's amazing how I was resolved to be strong, but wept uncontrollably when I was alone in my car. "Who will take care of me," I cried like a child.

It's amazing that it rained like God too, was sad to see you, go away from me.

Flight 880 Has Arrived

*Rough Draft

The seat I sat in sank me back. Thankfully, I caught myself on the arm of the chair, and laughed a bit through my nervous frame of mind. I began to wonder exactly who these airport seats had been made for. What was it? Were many of the travelers that ventured through this Midwest airport blessed with wide ends, hips that fit comfortable and had less fear of sliding back as they did getting out. I tried to keep my bare skin from sticking to the seat, so I pulled at my skirt, wiggling just right so as not to give the coffee attendant at Starbucks a show.

I composed myself and smiled, thinking, "he could see me at any moment. I feel silly."

I wasn't even sure I was in the right terminal. I was somewhere in between.

There was so much hustle and bustle going on around me that it was a wonder I felt nervous at all. Who would notice me in this crowded airport, on a Friday afternoon no less? He'd notice me. That's what mattered the most and though he knew every inch of me, I still didn't want him to see me, slinking back in an over sized, impossible to get out of like a lady, chair.

And so I sat, taking out a literary magazine I had brought for entertainment, nerve support, a protector to tell other folks I wasn't willing to chat. I heard a woman's voice over the intercom, something about this flight arriving and this flight going somewhere, I wasn't really sure of the details, but it was something like that. I started reading my first article, having this feeling that someone was watching me though knowing, I was an immobile ant in a hurried ant race.

I read, one article down. I became restless. I looked at the cell phone which I rested on the top of my purse beside me. He was going to call. He didn't know what terminal to meet me at, but he was gonna call.

I was too restless. My nerves were urging me to move. So I slid to the edge of the seat and stood, making sure I was all in tack. The terminal was quiet for a while. I could hear the click of my own heels on the floor. I was surprised by the echo of silence as I was sure I would be bombarded by travelers real soon. I watched as they walk and talked. They didn't move as if they cared for anyone to be in their way. I was sure they'd mow me down without another thought, less I snag their precious suitcase as they passed over my back. I wasn't sure what to make of the airport. I wasn't a "frequent flyer", hell, I wasn't a flyer at all. When was the last time I flew? Oh, that's right, I was an infant, and experiences as an infant don't really count, give or take a few.

I walked to and fro, wondering if I should have brought a pack of smokes, something to keep my hands busy, keep me busy. There were areas outside to smoke, designated spots right outside the door, which I couldn't really understand. Smoke travels, doesn't it? It was a nice day, I could have gone for a smoke. Nah, I was likely too nervous to smoke properly anyway. Likely would have made myself light headed. Then he'd really think me to be the "most beautiful woman" in the world, well, at least most beautiful one laying on the ground.

I found another seat, in an empty part of the terminal. Once again I sank into that great airport chair. I looked at the cellphone in my hand, waiting for it to ring. He was gonna call me when he was in. That's what he had said.

It was cold! I shivered. I wasn't wearing much to keep warm. Just a dark denim skirt and a yellow tank top. My hair tickled my shoulders, intensifying the chill and I shuddered even more. If I wasn't about to see him at any moment, I'd throw it up into a pony tail and be done with it already.

I opened my magazine, but that didn't stop me from looking around. All the bustle was now at the other end by the ticket counter and sports bar, the CNBC store with magazines, and the Starbucks with their line of customers. I didn't care about them, I was looking for him.

A group of men started coming from the left of me. Middle aged business men I could clearly tell, or greatly assumed, I wasn't sure just made the best guess I could. Click click...click click...duh dunt...duh dunt...I became memorized with the sound. One of the men's suitcase was clacking against the floor as he leisurely pulled it. I wouldn't have found this funny, but as the men continued, the sound intensified. I laughed as his recognition of this and I imagined he noticed that it echoed off the walls and had in fact caught my attention, which I snickered at.

Man! I was freezing, shivering more by now. The distracting sound took my attention off the air conditioning vent, which was blasting me from across the way. The phone rang. I shot up.

"Hello..." Oh, that voice. "I am in terminal B...what flight were you on...880...okay..."

I headed towards a map of the airport.

"So you're in terminal C. Do you want me to come to you?.....Okay, I am by gate 77...right in the middle of the terminal...okay...I love you."

I closed the phone and put it snug in my purse.

When will I see your face again? Soon, I will see it soon. What will I say? Please God, give me the gift of speech, don't let me ramble like an idiot. Let me be able to kiss this man without accidentally smacking into his face.

I saw a few of the colors I recognized, men walking around in uniform, but they were men I hadn't seen a day in my life. Other soldiers that I hadn't any connection to, but through my husband's job. My heart raced...then slowed...then raced at the thought of my husband being close to me already.

Again, I sank back into a chair.

I waited. I read more of my magazine. I observed a middle aged business man, about in his late thirties start up a conversation with a woman about her Sudoku game book. She was a pretty blond. I smiled at this scene beside me, knowing I didn't have to resort to small talk with the opposite sex to gain more of their time.

"Do you want a page?"
"No, thank you." He turns her down so polite, as if to imply he doesn't want to be a bother.
"Are you sure?"
He almost turns her down again, but something changes his mind. "Yeah, I'll take a page."

"Is this seat taken?" And that's when the scene became unimportant.

I smiled instantly and turned towards my right. I shot up, caring little about how proper or how graceful I looked. "Stand up," I said to my husband. Let everyone see this scene, I didn't care, I wanted to be in his arms.

It had been eleven months, nearly five days, and too many hours since I had last been held by my husband. Every ounce of excitement that you feel as a child on Christmas is multiplied. Every crush you've ever had and thought meant the world to you, is like a speck of dust. They say, not knowing who, that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Now intensify this by the multitude of experiences you've gone through together. Imagine in that moment that you've met each other for the first moment only to find, you're closer than you ever thought.

Ladies and gentlemen, flight 880 has arrived.

Water Tower

Let it be known that no on likes me, and why should they? I walk down the sidewalk of my hometown and no one dares look me in the eye or even glance my way for but a second. It’s not supposed to be like that where I’m from, the Midwestern town that is the picture of hometown splendor. The following year the war was won; the Germans and Hitler had been beaten. There is still confetti from the homecoming parade, red, white, and blue strips of paper blowing away from me in the breeze. I hold my sweater tight around my chest. It’s my mother’s as I was unable to find my own; I’m on a trip to get medicine for her now. She won’t mind about the sweater since my brother is home from the war, barely able to walk, but he’s alive. My father would have been proud; I only suppose since he’s never been around, only when he needs something from my mother does he enter our front door.

The streets seem so quiet, but there are people around. At one time I would have been asked about how my brother was doing. How was he fairing over seas, and now that he was home, how was he adjusting?

How’s that brother of yours Claire?

Are you happy to have him home?

I bet you’re proud of your bother Claire.

They would ask, but no one asked anything of me anymore. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse really as my brother was always the star of the family. First he was a football star then he was a scholar, graduating as the salutatorian of his class, and then he topped it all off by becoming a war hero. How on earth was I to compete with that? I have now though, only it’s the wrong sort of winnings if, in fact, that’s what they could be called.

My brother had a friend, well, actually he seemed to have many friends, but only one who went off to war with him. They were in the same unit, soldiers who had stormed the beaches of France together. John was my brother, and Frank DeSoto was his friend, and the only other soldier who returned home alive.

I never really had trouble finding a date, a boy who wanted to spend time with me. I had a small stature like my mother, but unlike her, I had dark hair like my father and brown eyes that matched my brothers. No, I never had a problem getting a date; I could have any boy I wanted, and Frank was no exception. It started when I was finishing high school and they were about to go off to war. Frank offered me a ride home from school, and I felt inclined to accept since I had known him nearly my whole life. There was no harm in a simple ride from my brother’s best friend and besides, it was winter. I sat down in the front seat of a brand new 1941 Cadillac, a gift from his rich father. I had never been in such an expensive car before, so I put my hands to the dashboard, bringing them down over the door and to the beige leather of the seats. The biggest difference between my brother and Frank was that Frank had money, lots of it, and was going to a great school when America declared war. It was the middle of January not too long after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.

Frank looked at me, getting the exact response that he had wanted to see from me. I wasn’t rich and he was, so of course I was going to be all mesmerized by the things he had, expensive cars and clothes, all sorts of toys really. John was never into materialistic things, but he had a way of earning people’s respect, making it so he never needed or wanted for anything; he always got what he wanted. It was odd to admit, but he was my parent’s favorite, especially my mother’s favorite. I thought that to be backwards since I was the daughter and he was the son. Don’t mothers always love their daughters more? Furthermore, I was sure my mother would compare him to our father, but how could she when John was nothing like him; he was perfect.

“You like it?” Frank asked as he pulled away from the curb, being extra careful not to slip and slide on the wet pavement on the drive to my house, which was really only a block away where the cheaper houses were.

“Yeah, I like it a lot,” I answered.

There was something about Frank that I really liked or had thought I had liked. I really didn’t know anything about him except who his rich parent’s were, the DeSoto’s, which were a long line of family bankers. I knew that he and my brother had been friends since grade school, and I knew how well he could tell crude jokes, especially when my brother was around. He had gone away to a school on the east coast, so naturally I assumed that coming back home to settle wasn’t really in his idea of a future. I expected Frank to travel and live off his families’ money then work some high powered job in a big city like New York or Chicago.

“I’m going to war Claire,” he said before I got out of the car. “I think it’s the right thing to do, and since my father was a soldier once, he thought it was only appropriate that I go.”

I understood, feeling that it was his duty. If my brother had to go then so should he, so I watched them both go, wondering if I might ever see either of them again. As I opened the car door that day Frank told me that he was going to marry me when he got back home, jokingly I figured. After all, this thought to me was ridiculous as I was clearly out of his league nor was there any reason for me to just wait around for some guy. I had plans of going off to see the world, going to college so as to get away from my Midwest prison. Beside, John had graduated second in his class, so me not doing something spectacular with my life was out of the question, and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t typical for a woman to go off to college after high school.

“Sure Frank,” I replied with a flirty smile then carefully made my way up the unshoveled walk to my front door. I would change into pants and wrap up like an Eskimo just to go back outside and do the job that was once my brothers.

It was about two years into the war when I learned that John had been shot in the leg, but he had refused to take leave and come home, believing that he was needed over there, fighting for our freedom. I understood his way of thinking, but my mother didn’t, so she became sad all the time, moping about the house, fearing that another bullet would find my brother and surely kill him. She didn’t believe in second luck or first luck for that matter. After graduating I didn’t go off to college, but stayed with my mother while John was away. Though I knew I wasn’t my mother’s favorite, I felt a sense of duty to take care of her. I sacrificed myself even if all she wanted was to talk to John, which they rarely ever did before he left for war. She had this notion that she and my brother had such a great relationship. True, my brother loved our mother, but John had his own plans of living his life, and it wasn’t in his future to take care of our mother because as everyone seemed to see it, that was my job.

***

John came home on a Saturday and on Sunday my mother cooked a feast. My grand parents were there, slapping him on the back and thanking him for doing his part. I was in the back of the conversations most of the day, but I understood that John had done a great thing that the war was brutal. He was someone I could be proud of.

It was nearing the end of the summer when the town had a homecoming parade for Frank and my brother as well as a memorial service for the fallen soldiers from our small town. The confetti was all over the place, coming from every child that had got their hands on a small bag that had been prepared by the post-war committee. I watched as the parade went on, waving my American flag with pride, holding it up as I saw my brother.

Afterwards, there was a picnic party in the park for the soldiers to meet and greet, and being that there were only two soldiers left, most of the attention was focused on them. I ate a hot dog and drank a cold coke, watching everyone play games that I had long grown out of. I felt so prideful and stuck at the same time, and as I watched my brother conversing with people, looking so dashing in his khaki dress pants and blue button up shirt, I couldn’t help but think that it was my turn now.

***

Frank asked me out on a date two days after coming home, and upon telling my mother this. she gave me a look of happiness that I had only seen when she talked about John. She actually was happier about my date with Frank than she was for me to go off to school and better my life. There was never a time that she had ever mentioned this to me, but her actions always spoke louder than any words. Suddenly she wanted to be involved in what I did, and I found this exciting and frightening at the same time. When was I going to loose her attention, at any moment I only supposed?

It was warm yet when Frank had picked me up, and I was wearing a dark blue dress with a sweater to match. My hair was up in a ponytail, a curl at the end. There was a feeling of indifference when I sat down in the front seat of his Cadillac, the same car I had sat in before the war. I wasn’t so sure I was excited, and couldn’t put into words why I felt so…unhappy. Frank hadn’t said much to me, but he was sweet, the perfect gentleman, joking because that was who he was. He took me to a movie and dinner afterwards at the local café. We even kissed and I loved his kiss, but I had this feeling like something was coming like there was this big announcement that was about me, but didn’t include me.

“Claire,” he said as we were driving. There was a water tower on a plot of land that was owned by his father, a place that he had always wanted to take me. “I told you that I was going to come back and marry you…right?”

“You mentioned something of the sort, yes.” I answered, pinching my fingers together, feeling this lump in my throat. I was so confused really; he was a great guy, I should be excited to get all this attention and I did like him.

It was already night, but he had left on his headlights as we climbed up the ladder of the tower. I went after him as the other way was just not appropriate. He pulled me up to stand beside him, telling me that he was just so happy to be with me that he thought he was in love with me. I have pictured your face so many times during the war, he told me, touching my face with his fingertips. I wasn’t sure where this was coming from, but he told me that he didn’t want to make a move on anything until he knew that he was coming home alive. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but I loved hearing those words come from his mouth as they were flattering to me.

The weather was mild, warm really with a very light breeze. Frank wasn’t even drinking, but for some reason there was this excitement about him that was far more intoxicating that any alcohol could be. Was he really that happy to be in my presence?

“I want to settle down Claire and raise a family.”

I could understand that, but what did that mean for me? I didn’t respond to him, so he continued.

“You know war changes a person and you just put things into perspective. So, I was thinking that maybe we could date for a while and then we could get married. I could get a job with my father to start out and then in a few years move up to the top position.” He moved his hand down to rub my neck. His strong fingers massaged my tense neck, moving my head back and forth. “So Claire, what do you think?”

I remained silent still, so he took his hand away from my neck. Why me and why now? I might have felt differently if this had been years down the road. He must have felt my apprehension as he said a few things, that at any other time, would have been hilarious, something about a horse walking into a bar and then some joke about a Genie. I didn’t really laugh only smiled to appease him, so he tried again, leaning over the edge of the water tower, the railing was only an inch thick metal rod. I went for him immediately, pulling on him, telling him that he was being ridiculous.

“So that’s what will get your attention?” he asked. “Say yes Claire or I’ll climb over this railing.”

“What?” I asked and no sooner was that question out of my mouth when he began climbing over the railing, and again I went for him. I begged him to just come back, but he was determined to go over the edge unless I said yes to all that he had talked about, but I couldn’t. I really did want him to stay on the safe side with me, but I had stayed for everyone else long enough. What was the point, to stay for a man who might eventually leave you, living all your life for a child who you believe could do no wrong?

He laughed at my attempts to pull him back, telling me that he had walked along the outside of the platform around the water tower tons of times, and could probably do it with his eyes closed. “I’ll get back Claire if you just say that you’ll marry me.”

What the hell held my tongue, making it impossible for me to just tell him whatever he had wanted to hear, but what could guarantee me that he wouldn’t be back up at that water tower any other night? My hand was on his arm, squeezing his muscle, and he was strong too, so when he lost his footing I became frantic, screaming. I had never felt so desperate before especially as he slipped from my grip. My fingers hurt where I had tried to grab on to his shirt. This was not the younger days anymore; he could not do the things that he had once been able to do nor could I. He fell to the ground with a thud, breaking his neck instantly on the hard dirt ground below. He was visible in the headlight of his car, and I froze, standing still, looking down at his tangled body. This was not happening, I thought. Frank was dead. This was not happening. His eyes were open, looking at me. I could see this even from where I was or at least, had imagined it. This was not happening.

****

It was morning by the time anyone came by, finding Frank’s dead body first then me. The headlights were still on, and I was still up on the water tower. I’m not sure how the neighbor down the road knew I was up there, but I was, huddled in a ball with my knees up to my chest. I knew that I should have gone for help, but I was scared, unbelieving that this was really happening to me. What the hell was he thinking, climbing over the edge like that? This was bigger than me, bigger than anything that I knew how to deal with. The sad truth hit me, knowing things would have been different if this had happened to anyone else.

Frank was a rich son and a war hero, and I was just a girl, so when the police questioned me about how Frank died I wasn’t surprised to find that they treated me as if I had killed him. I didn’t murder him; I didn’t push him. John said that he believed me when he came to pick me up from the police station, but there was something in his looked that spoke of believing otherwise. My mother couldn’t have looked at me but once the following weeks after Frank had died, and I knew that she had begun to believe what everyone else did that it was my fault. It was an accident though, wasn’t it? I didn’t push him just didn’t tell him what he had wanted to hear, that’s all.

“Of course you didn’t kill him,” John said one afternoon. “Frank’s always been that way, doing stuff to get attention or something that might get him killed.”

There was something else John had wanted to say, I knew it, but he kept quiet even agreed that I not go to the funeral. Oh Claire you know you should have just said yes. Oh Claire, Frank’s a good guy you know it wouldn’t have hurt you to just say yes. Oh Claire there’s never going to be anyone better than him…you blew it sis. No, he never said those things out loud, but thought them, I could sense it. Perhaps John didn’t believe that Frank had even been that interested in me. I’m not really sure, but it was positive that no one wanted to forgive me. If I was just a girl before, I was worse than that following the trip to the water tower.

I walk down the streets of my hometown, seeing the paper from the parade that once praised my brother and his friend. They flutter by in the fall wind, and I wonder how long it will take for all the paper to finally be cleaned from Main Street? I’m walking to get medicine for my mother who I care for. My brother is gone now, living his life. When will it all go away, the patriotic pieces of paper that were thrown to our war heroes, the two heroes that were left?

They Always Leave the Light On

As a beacon in the dark, the house in the cul-de-sac of Maple Street always leaves the porch light on. Even when they’re away the light remains on day and night and night and day. That’s where he stood, looking to the house three doors down from his parent’s house, his childhood home. He had returned home from college just two days earlier. He was told by his mother that Mrs. Michaels was doing rather well, ten years since the disappearance of her daughter Morgan.

Pretty Morgan Michaels, the girl was just twelve. He was thirteen, and remembered her like it was just yesterday.

He was Keith Harrison, and his mother was known as the queen of the cul-de-sac, not because she was rich, they were far from being rich, and not because she was a gossip queen, but because she was Mrs. Betty Crocker herself. Any bad thing that happened, his mother was always ready with a casserole or kind card, expressing her deepest sympathy, and though she was his mother, he believe that she was genuine. He saw the tears in her eyes when, after two weeks, Morgan didn’t return. He saw her sneaking peeks into his room, making sure they were safely tucked into their warm beds.

His mother had just cooked dinner for the family, a tender roast, his favorite, and because of this she cooked it. He was smoking a cigarette, something his mother wished he wouldn’t do. He laughed ever time she told him that he could die from such a habit. There were many other things that he could die from, but every time she reminded him of this, he instantly put it out. His mother was staying inside tonight, so he puffed away. He heard them moving things around in the home office, which was once his old room. That was where he would be sleeping. He was staying three weeks before going away to his new job, a marketing intern position in the big city. His mother didn’t understand why he had to move so far away, but his father understood his reasons.

It was way over tweleve years ago that he realized Morgan Michaels lived just down the street. They were in the third grade when he saw her riding her bike around her driveway. She rarely ever left her safe lawn, and it wasn’t until they started their friendship that she became so brave. He teased her, calling her a baby that she was a chicken simply because she was a girl. She had so much determination to prove him wrong, showing up at his house after homework nearly every night. It was fun, picking on her.

Morgan was already a beautiful girl at the age of eight, and had the curliest hair he had ever seen. It was usually tied back in a braid that bounced around her back as she ran after him. Usually she was going for him after he had pushed her or said something in jest. Maybe that was why she disappeared. Maybe someone thought she was too pretty to resist.

She had brown eyes.

She had a small nose and pretty almond shape eyes with eye lashes that facinated him at nearly every blink of her eyes.

She had a smile that would light up any dark room, and she was just a girl. Imagine if she had made it to adulthood.

He took the last hit of his cigarette and flicked off the hot cherry. The remainder of the cigarette he crushed in the palm of his hand, preparing to throw it away, and he was about to turn away when someone caught his attention. Over the way he saw Mrs. Michaels and her younger daughter Allison, carrying a few duffle bags into the house. Allison was a year younger than Morgan, but they were more like twins. He hadn’t talked to Allison since going away to college. In fact, he was supposed to go to her open house for her high school graduation, but was too busy with summer classes to return home. He felt terrible especially since he finally saw the woman she became. Her legs long, even longer looking in her short gene shorts and her straight ponytail dancing around as she pulled a box out of her mother’s station wagon. She had a bounce in her step as she moved, and for a second he was completely in a trance.

The scene was over when she and her mother got into the car, and backed out of the driveway. In the distance he could see the red tail-lights showing bright in the dusk of the night. He looked back to the end of the cul-de-sac to the house that sat with the porch light on. It had been ten years, but he couldn’t help but think of Morgan being there, inside the house as her sister and mother were away. There had never been a year that he hadn’t thought about her. Something would always trigger the memory of the girl who never returned home from the park, and he wondered if there was some way he could have prevented her disappearance. He was too lazy that day, to go anywhere outside, but she was too adventurous to stay home on a prefect night to be outside.

He turned the cigarette butt in his hand then finally headed inside to throw it away.

***

He was off to the store, going for a few things that his mother had put on a list for. She insisted that they get ice cream and toppings for sundaes after supper on Sunday. He’d probably sleep until eleven then get out of bed to smoke a cigarette before going to take a shower. He knew how he slept, and knew eleven was really sleeping in. Soon he’d be starting a new job, a grown up job. It was something he was able to do, grow up.

He walked into Carl’s Groceries, and took a basket from the three that were left. He doesn’t really even need a list for the items he was going for. It was his boyhood craving that made his mother insist on Sundaes in the first place, meaning he never needed a reminder of his favorite ice cream toppings. He would need bananas, chocolate, and caramel, lots of caramel. For his father he would need ground nuts.

He headed for the produce section when he saw Allison pushing a cart towards him. She saw him too and he felt something that he never thought he would when looking at her, complete ease.

“Keith Harrison,” she said as she stopped the cart and smiled at him.
“Hey Allison…how are you doing?”
“Good…I’m at my mom’s for a while, so I’m doing a little grocery shopping.”
“Same here,” he said as he rested his basket to his side.
She leaned over, peering into his basket. “Ah huh…nuts…you’ll need a little more protein than that.”
“No, this is for my father…”
“Than you’ll really going to need more than that.”
He laughed.
“It’s for Sundaes for Sunday.”
She smiled and nodded her head. “I see.”
“So you’re staying with you mom for a while?” he asked.
“Yeah, I have a college semester in England in two weeks, so I’m staying with her for a while, so I don’t have to worry about leaving all my things at the college. Then afterwards I’m going to stay with her again while she decides what to do…”
“To do?”
“The house,” she said. “She’s alone now…really alone and should move into something smaller, but she’s afraid to leave.”
“Right.”
The subject changed quickly. “Sundaes huh?”
“Yeah, I’m heading for bananas now.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy the Sundaes, and tell your mother I said thanks for the cookies.”
“Cookies?”
“Yeah, she made a whole batch of white chocolate chip cookies for me.”
He, for some reason, was surprised by this. “She did?”
“Keith,” she said as if to imply that he was asking a rather odd question. “She’s your mother…she’s always making or baking something.”
“I know.”
She laughed again. “Okay…you seem really unsure.”
“Come over,” he said unexpectedly.”
“Pardon me?” She gripped the handle of the cart until her knuckles were white. “On Sunday?”
“For Sundaes,” he said. “You and your mother could come over for dinner then join us for Sundaes.”
She nodded. “I’ll run it by my mother.”
“My mom’s making her famous potato salad…”
“Okay…pull out all the stops now,” she said as she bent her knee out and switched her weight onto her left leg.
“I know you couldn’t ever resist my mother’s potato salad.”
“I’ll run it by my mother…I owe her as much time as possible before I jet off to another country.”
“Okay…fair enough.”
She smiled and shook her head. “By Keith,” she said as she pushed the cart again. “Hey Keith,” she called back as she turned, but he hadn’t moved yet.
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you get strawberries too…really big ones okay.”
He smiled and nodded his head. “I will…big fat ones.”

***

He smoked another cigarette as he waited for the light down the street to turn on. He made sure to pick the same time every night after dinner to come out, and though he knew the light would always go on, he couldn’t help but feel part of the ritual, watching and waiting for the time Morgan’s beacon would come on. Perhaps he was expecting to see her run up the steps to the front door, swinging it open, yelling here I am then quickly go into her room, plopping down on her bed.

Allison was grown up, and he could remember what she looked like as a child. Not for all the money in the world could he imagine what Morgan would be like, all grown up. She was all four foot tall the last time he saw her, and still had an adolescent tone about her, trying to be so adult, but failing at every turn because she was just a girl.

Instead of going inside he lit up another cigarette, sitting on the edge of his parent’s small front deck. How was her mother now? He wondered about her state of mind, knowing that she had to of pulled herself together somewhat since Allison was still left. Left…like there were two girls now, but only one was left. He released a puff of smoke, and thought of how insensitive that sounded. They’re humans not apples or oranges used in mathematical terminology, three apples, take one away and how many are left?

He hoped Allison would visit on Sunday. Oddly enough, he even said a little prayer to God that she’d just come for even the smallest bit of time.

***

Morgan Michaels was supposed to return home at about five-thirty for dinner on Thursday August 23rd…. but never showed. It was around eight that her mother informed the police, her neighbors being informed prior to any law enforcement, of her daughters failed homecoming. The small niche of Maple Street was out searching by eight, the time the police had rolled down into the cul-de-sac and up the Michaels’ driveway where Mr. and Mrs. Michaels met them. Allison was sitting on the porch steps, clinging to something, but she never allowed anyone to see what was in her arms.

Come morning there was still no sign of the girl, and two days later a shoe was found, and her mother identified that it, in fact, was her daughters. The area more than five miles away from the cul-de-sac was searched. Inch by inch was stepped on, searched over, and torn up before it was determined that Morgan was nowhere to be found. It was dead end after dead end. Most everyone figured Morgan to be dead, but no one dared mention it to her mother. No one had the nerve to tell a mother that her child was dead, everyone except the sheriff who had braced the Michaels’ for the worst.

“Hope for the best, but please, expect the worst…Morgan may never come home,” were the words that were said.

It had been ten years and Mrs. Michaels’ remained in the same house all by herself since her daughter had gone way to college. A year or two after Morgan’s disappearance Mr. Michaels left the cul-de-sac for good, and no one, especially Allison had ever seen him again. It was believed a divorce had never been requested.

The remaining Michaels had become the family of pity despite how upright Mrs. Michaels had remained and how outstanding of a daughter Allison truly was. If they achieved something they were overcoming an obstacle and if mother and daughter failed then it was because of the sadness in their past. It would always be that way on Maple Street, but for some reason neither of them requested that it be any other way.

***


Sunday morning came and just as he had anticipated he woke around eleven and went outside to smoke his first cigarette of the day. By one in the afternoon his parents had returned from church. He was standing in the backyard at his father’s grill, cleaning the remainder of the night’s previous dinner, steak kabobs, when he heard voices in the kitchen. Out stepped the prettiest woman he had ever seen. Allison wore a white dress likely worn to church, which she attended with her mother. Her hair was in a ponytail due to the summer’s warm air, and she brought him a plate of cupcakes, which she held up for him to see, saying something about having cake with the ice cream.

Her mother looked older and much harder than he had remembered her to be, and he was unsure if this was because of time or tribulations. His mother still looked the same, but then again she would always remain ageless in his eyes.

Through dinner they all laughed and talked, and even Mrs. Michaels said a few humorous things. Afterwards, after about an hour of talking over lunch he went into the kitchen, Allison following, to get the ice cream and toppings. Everyone that was left removed the condiments and every other little thing that had absolutely nothing to do with ice cream. He laughed and flirted with Allison and she flirted and laughed back. He nudged her arm like they were teenagers in high school, and she mocked and innocently made fun of him.

She ate cake with her ice cream and two big strawberries with chocolate syrup drizzled all over, covering the red fruit. He ate his ice cream with the same enthusiasm as he did when he was as a kid, but not because of the taste. Afterwards, he and his father were volunteered to go over to the Michaels’ house to look over what repairs needed to be made, but Mrs. Michael refused the help. It was clear that she really didn’t want to move out of her home, and he couldn’t blame her. Still, he decided that on Monday he would visit with Mrs. Michaels to once again offer his help with any repairs she wanted done.

***

It was around nine, he woke up early to go over to the Michaels’ house. He pulled a t-shirt over his head and finished his pop tart breakfast before exiting the house. He was tempted to lit his first cigarette of the day, but he felt like doing little of anything else as soon as the house came into view, but getting over to the blue door as soon as possible. Though determination was fierce the sense of reality was too, and he paused just as he was about to knock on the door. Last time he was knocking on this door was to get Morgan for school one morning. She wasn’t at the bus stop, and it wasn’t like her to be late. Ten days later and she was gone. Had tens years really passed between then and the time he had last stood at the Michaels’ doorstep? He turned, looking out over the cul-de-sac, and he felt as if everything was different. It didn’t necessarily look different, but felt different, almost surreal. Everything was quite, and for a moment he felt as if he had been looking in on some small community that was all shut up in its homes.

He finally knocked, and Mrs. Michaels came to the door.

“Oh Keith, I really didn’t need you to come and help me…I was just going to do some minor repairs that’s all…you’re mother…” she protested, but still stepped aside to let him come. “You’re mother is so sweet she really is, but Ally and I will be fine fixing things.”

“I know,” he said though he wasn’t sure what response he was supposed to even have. “It’s alright,” he continued as if to say something more appropriate, more cliché. “I had the time.”

“Just some small things…painting really and Ally wants me to get rid of some old things…and…” She moved further into the house, leading him into the kitchen. “I needed some updating in here.”

“Painting,” he said with a smile, taking full note of the old blue paint and stained white counter tops. The kitchen was well used and outdated. He had some ideas, but he was a male, marketing major not a decorator. “I’ll help…that’s final.”

“I can pay-”

“No, I don’t need anything,” he interjected. “That won’t be necessary.”

She pulled a chair back from the metal Formica dinning table. “Sit…please let me fix you something…you used to like pancakes and lots of syrup.”

He was taken back. “You remembered.”

“How many mornings did you come and get…” She paused taking in a deep breath then she smiled. “How many times did you come get Morgan on pancake breakfast day?”

He smiled a completely guilty smile.

“I think she requested them for you.” She turned away from the table and began taking out things to make pancakes. First she went into the fridge for milk then the cupboards for bowls and pancake mix. “They’re not from scratch any more, but-”

“They’ll be fine…I eat anything,” he said as he sat down. “I’m sure they’ll be just as tempting no matter what source they’re from.”

She didn’t say much as she whipped together the mix and milk then dove down beside the stove for a frying pan. “Thin?” she asked.

“Anyway.”

She poured one pancake then two more before she stopped and handed him a plate of fat cakes. He smiled as she handed him the syrup, and a glass of milk she had poured, foot holding open the fridge, before returning the carton to the cold. She didn’t sit, but began pouring more pancakes. He took a bite then took a drink. They were tasty compared to the boring pot tart he had had before coming over. However, it was her distraction that made him uneasy. She wanted to say something and he could feel it.

He was nearly finished when she turned to him, and he looked up at her, chewing. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“When Morgan…” She fought back something, tears or words. “When Morgan disappeared what did you think?”

“Think? I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you’re asking? Are you meaning when I was little?”

“Yes.”

He thought back as he pushed his plate away from; he couldn’t eat any more. There was no easy way he could describe what he had felt when Morgan disappeared, and he wasn’t sure that he could give her a detailed explanation without some adult thought getting in the way. They were just kids then, but now, knowing what he knew, the fear and anger that had been because of Morgan’s disappearance. He wasn’t sure what he had really felt. Things were supposed to be uncomplicated back then, and he must have thought some uncomplicated thought about her disappearance. She wasn’t his best friend true, but she was always there and then one day she wasn’t.

“I don’t know if I can answer that.”

She finally sat down, her hand sliding across the table as if she wanted to touch him. “Try…please.”

“Morgan,” he said, realizing that he hadn’t said her name in years. Thinking it was completely different then saying it out loud for everyone to hear. “One day she was there and the next day she was gone…it’s that simple…was that simple for me back then. I felt sad if that’s what you’re asking.”

She didn’t respond.

“I think about it more now than I ever have. I wonder…I feel saddened and think about her more now when-”

“You look at my Ally?”

He didn’t respond, but nodded.

“One day Keith…I’m going to look in her eyes…I’m going to tell Morgan that I still think about her and love her. She might have forgotten us, but I will tell her that I have never forgotten her…never.”

He believed that she believed this was true.

There was a creak in the old floors and he saw Allison, her head down, and then she looked at him, releasing a deep breath. They both turned to stare at Allison as she came into the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a loose, old high school t-shirt with a blue bulldog in the center, and her purse was over her shoulder. She wore sandals that flipped and flapped as she walked.
“I made pancakes dear…are you hungry?” her mother asked as she stood.
“No, thank you though. I wanted to get to the hardware store, so we could get some painting started.”
“You’re so determined to help me before you go.”
“You know it.”
“And Keith is going to help too.”
“Okay,” she said with a smile.
He stood. “I’ll go with you.”
“Okay.”

She drove her mother’s Ford Taurus; a new blue vehicle with power windows that she had put down the very second the car was turned on. The air outside was fairly cool yet, but soon the summer heat would filter into the car, and she would no doubt die for air conditioning. She didn’t say much only backed out of the driveway and made her way out of the cul-de-sac. In fact, she didn’t have much conversation the whole time they were in the hardware store. She looked at paint, attempting to pick the right color that would suit her mother or rather a new buyer of the home. Truth was, he was hoping that she wouldn’t push her mother to sell the home, at least not yet. She could at least wait another summer or two, so she could have a place to return to.

“How about off white?” she asked.
“As opposed to the egg shell blue it is now?”
“Right…but if the house-”
“Is supposed to be sold?”

She retuned the off white pain swab, and said something under her breath, but he didn’t catch it nor did he ask her to repeat it. She didn’t speak again, only searched the colors over and over again before turning to him. “I don’t know…you pick. I don’t want this decision on me.”

He wanted to protest, but she had already walked away, looking at brushes and other supplies they would need. He looked at her then back at the many colors, different shades of the same hue over and over again in his mind. Then he picked up the first piece of paper with the most reasonable color that he saw for the kitchen. He couldn’t really see the home with any other décor than it had already had, and figured that her mother didn’t either, but upon Allison’s insistence that she move altogether and that was why she didn’t want to pick the color. She didn’t want to be responsible for her mother’s unhappiness at the thought of change or a color scheme that Morgan wouldn’t recognize if, by chance of a miracle, she came home.

“This,” he said as he handed her the small piece of paper. “Cream yellow.”

“It will have to do,” she said as she looked down at the piece of paper, staring blankly as if trying to imagine her childhood home any different than it had become ten years earlier.

She bought things on his suggestions and paid with her own Visa card. It was all on her now, the payment of her mother’s change. He tried to put everything in the trunk, but she wouldn’t allow him to, and had grabbed almost everything before he had a chance to even put one bag in the trunk. She had something on her mind that she was refusing to talk about, and he felt it hard in the chest like someone had just punched him. It was like knowing you were in trouble, but just waiting for someone to say something or the punishment to come.

“Keith,” she finally said after turning at the first light.
“Yeah.”
Her hands squeezed the steering wheel tighter. “You know that you really don’t know me right?”
“We grew up together-”
“But you didn’t even come around again after Morgan disappeared.”
He was silent, unknowing of what to say.
“I mean if you…if…damn it!”
“What?”
She shook her head. “I can’t have this right now…not right now.”
“What Allison?”
“Us…this…I know you know?”
“I could play dumb…”
“No.”
“If you would like me to I would-”
“No please don’t, but you gotta tell me honestly…is it because of Morgan?”
“No…I promise…this has nothing to do with Morgan. Does it for you?”
“For me?”

“The timing…I know you’re going away Ally, but that doesn’t mean its bad timing you know. Is it because of Morgan do you think that even after ten years I have some strong connection to her? We were just kids when she disappeared, and I could lie and say that I wish she was here, but I really don’t care when I’m with you. What is, is what’s now, right here, and not what could have been.” He sat silent. “I’m sorry Ally, but her disappearance won’t reverse itself.”

“I know.”

***

It was around noon before everything had been cleared away in the kitchen, and they finally got to painting. The yellow cream color was soothing, but often, as he looked at it, he had a hankering for frosting, a cake with yellowish cream frosting, and because of this he was often thirsty. Allison couldn’t understand his constant need for a drink when the weather wasn’t all that bad, a little humid, but not that bad. All the windows were open, and Mrs. Michaels brought down all the fans that she could find to circulate the air. She, at one time, had them all pointing into the kitchen, but upon Allison’s strong suggestion that the paint would dry too quickly before they were finished, she spent the rest of her time devising the best possible directions for the perfect air flow.

After each wall was covered with primer and one coat of yellow cream Allison reached into the fridge, pulling out two bottles of water, and she handed one to him. There were speckles of paint on all of her body, and he looked down at his hands and arms, finding that he too was equally matched with little yellow and white dots of paint. He twisted open the bottle and followed her outside to the small front porch steps. Just as they sat down her mother made her way between them, her purse on her right arm, and keys in her hand. She turned to look down at them.

“I have a dinner date with a friend of mine, and I thought I would take it as a chance to get out of your guy’s hair. I’ll be back by night, so don’t worry about me.” She leaned down and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Love you sweetie.”
“Love you too mom,” Ally replied as she touched her mom’s shoulder.

They both silently watched her mother back out of the driveway and make her way down to the stop sign that would take her out of the cul-de-sac. On the right side, along the row of houses, a man was mowing his lawn, the scent of the grass mixed with the humidity. It was a strong, fresh cut smell.

“I love the smell of fresh cut grass,” she said then took a drink of water. “It reminds me of life…however oxymoronic that sounds.”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “Like being alive to mow the grass in the first place like it’s a normal, natural part of life, doing yard work.”
“Yeah.”
“Allison,” he said in the tone of a question.
“Keith.”
He took a drink; the popping sound of his lips releasing the rim of the bottle filled the silence. “I want to see you again you know?”

She looked at him, and for the first time he really took in the depth of her eyes. They were hazel green unlike her mother’s or Morgan’s brown eyes. “I don’t know what to say…I wish that I did.”

“Like I said, your going away doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It’s a good thing you know.”

“A ‘good thing’…really…just in the time that I really find a great guy, I have to go away to another country.” She took a drink of her water, so she wouldn’t have to say any more. She was using her water bottle as some sort of safety net like she really needed to try and protect herself from him.

“You’ll come home.”

“I know…I just feel like I miss you already.”

He took her hand, and she looked straight at him again, but this time she rested her head on his shoulder. The lawn mower in the distance ran as some sort of soundtrack to the moment; a reminder of what Allison had just said about life and being alive. He kissed her hair where speckles of paint mixed with straight strands of hair.

“Wow,” was all she said as she closed her eyes and squeezed tighter to his hand, but she never explained her exclamation.

***

Through the whole time she was away in England they never lost touch of each other, and she called him or he called her at least once a day just to make sure he or she said I love you. Three months later and she returned, and they were more into each other, more in love than either of them thought possible. On their wedding night Allison again looked at him, and again she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and utter the exclamation of wow, meaning, wow, she couldn’t believe this had happened. She couldn’t believe that Morgan was gone, but had somehow found a way to return. In spirit or in some form of matchmaker or a big sister to guide a little sister on the path to the natural path of life. The light's still on, but this time, it's inside.

Better To See When You're Blind

He swirls the ice in his cup then lowers it to the bar. Outside the weather is nice, the sun hangs high in the sky, throwing rays of sun down on bare arms and sun glassed eyes. He peers over his shoulder then back at his cup, the Scotch is diluted now, the ice is practically melted. He pushes the cup to the bartender to signal he needs another shot, and is obliged almost immediately. The rusty liquid sits in front of him, but he doesn’t pick up the glass instead he looks over to his left, wondering how he hadn’t noticed her before, when he walked in. She sits a stool away from him, her head is tilted down, her long blonde hair is in curls around her shoulders; they’re big loose curls. She’s staring blankly into her cup, its half empty; her fingers are wrapped around the clear glass, her thumb is wiping down the condensation. She’s young, has to be at least ten years his junior. Then she straightens herself, she’s still staring ahead, and she perks up as if she’s heard something. Finally he takes a drink from his glass, swirling the ice again as he goes to set it down.

“So much tension for the noon hour,” she says as she smiles, but she doesn’t turn to him.

“No tension here,” he says as he slightly turns towards her.

“None?” she asks.

He is lying. There are many things that have agitated him recently. She smiles and he takes another drink, the Scotch dries his throat. He’s come from his apartment down the street, working all day and night on his music; his ex-wife is calling him constantly asking when he’s picking up their thirteen year old son for the summer. On top of that, he has to write a career maker song full of tenderness and conviction. He hasn’t felt tenderness or conviction in years. He concedes to her, the woman sitting at the bar with him, and he nods, but she doesn’t notice it. “I suppose you’re right,” he says to get her attention.

She smiles.

“It just things, there are always things,” he says.

“Life’s that way.”

He laughs.

“What?”

“I’m not convinced it’s just life. I think it might be me. Maybe God doesn't like me.”

“That’s a strong assumption.” She takes a drink. “I’m sure God has other things to do than torture you.”

Again he laughs. “You think so?” He moves down a stool, sitting next to her. Still she doesn’t turn to him. “I’m Jack.”

She holds out her hand. “Tawny.”

He slips his hand in hers, it fits, the touch of her skin against his. He releases it, but only because she pulls away. He begins watching her, the movement of her chest as she takes each breath, the line of her neck as she continues to stare straight in front of her. He takes in her profile, the only view of her he has seen so far. Then he notices it, feeling like a fool. She’s blind.

“What are you doing here Tawny, and by yourself?”

“Ah, you’ve caught on. I was wondering how long it would take.” She smiles, turning her body towards him. “I was going to meet my husband for lunch, but he had to cancel.”

He looks to her left hand as she rests it on the edge of the bar. It’s beautiful, the diamond engagement ring that matches perfectly with her silver wedding band. It’s a little disappointing really. Then he looks up into her eyes, they’re clouded, but a beautiful gray.

“Married Jack?” she asks.

“Ah no…use to be. We divorced a few years ago.”

“Children?”

“One, a boy…he’s thirteen.”

“He must be wonderful…are you a proud father?”

“Yeah, I am…very proud of him.” He takes a drink from his glass. “How could you sense it…the tension I mean?”

“The sound of the ice in your glass…you swirl it around after every time you take a drink.” She smiles. “What are you doing here…by yourself I mean?”

“Taking a break.”

“Can you tell me what time it is?”

He looks down at his watch. “Around one.”

“Oh,” she reaches beside the bar, taking her walking cane. “It was nice talking to you, but I should be getting back home.”

“Can I walk you?” he asks as he stands from his seat.

“I’ll be alright, I know the way…thanks though.”

She knows the way. He doesn’t understand it; how she can possible know her way around the big city? He sits back down as she searches her way out of the restaurant. He’s watching her, can’t take his eyes off of her. It’s as if she doesn’t even need the stick, as if she knows where to put her feet. He wonders how many times she’s been to the restaurant. Again he swirls the ice in his glass, but he doesn’t take a drink. There’s nothing to drink. He throws his money on the bar, sitting for a second, thinking of her again. He’s feeling something return, something he’s not sure ever would.

***
He sits in the theater at the piano, there are a few measures of his song already written, some he wrote after meeting Tawny and he plays them over and over again. He likes it, the song so far, and is proud of himself. Yet, he’s stuck. Something catches his eyes. In the corner someone appears, walking towards him, it’s a woman; her hands are touching each seat as she passes. Her gaze is straight forward. She’s wearing a white blouse, thin straps and a red skirt, it pushes against her legs as she walks.

“Don’t stop playing,” she says as she stops. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiles. It’s Tawny. How did she know where he was? He only met her the other day. Then again, does she even know it’s him? He plays it one more time then stops, seeing her blissful reaction. “I’m sorry there’s not much more to it.”

She cocks her head to the side, just slightly as if she’s recognized something in his voice. “Jack?”

“How’d you know?” he asks as he turns on the bench.

“Your voice…”

“Oh, right…”

“You write music?” she asks as she begins to slowly make her way to the stage, the steps are close by.

“Yeah I do.” He stands to meet her halfway, but she doesn’t really need his help, she’s slowly, but efficiently making her way to him. Then he backs up as she comes over to the piano, sitting down at the bench. He sees her scoot to make room for him; her hand searches for the edge to make sure she doesn’t fall off, and he sits beside her. “Can you play?”

“Oh no…”

“Right…”

“Not because I’m blind…I just haven’t learned.” She touches the keys. “Will you play something else for me?”

He does just as she asks, playing a few measures of Moonlight Sonata. He looks over to her, she has her eyes closed; she’s beautiful, the way she listens to music. He stops, the song is finished and he waits to see if she wants to hear something else, but they sit in silence for a while.

“How old are you?” she asks.

He laughs, odd question to ask. “Around forty-”

“Above or below?”

“Below.” She turns to him, and he watches her, as if she’s looking at him. “Would it help, to touch my face…I mean if that really works.”

She smiles. “You assume I want to know what you look like.”

There’s silence. He feels a little foolish like a pubescent school boy being mocked by the high school prom queen. It’s a foreign feeling to him. Then she laughs.

“I’m kidding…you don’t have to get so tense again.”

She raises her hands, and he touches them, bringing her delicate fingers to his face. She closes her eyes, and he does too as she brushes the hair away from his face then brings them down his brow, around his eyes, brushing her fingers over his lashes. He holds his breath as if breathing on her would be committing a sin. She brings her fingers down his nose over his cheeks, and she traces his jaw, ending at his lips. He opens his eyes; she brings her hands over his shoulders.

“They’re broad and strong,” she says as she opens her eyes and lowers her hands into her lap.

“What do I look like to you…am I acceptable?”

“You should smile more often.”

He rubs his neck. “And how do you know that?”

“Your lips, the lines around your lips…”

“I have lines around my lips.” She laughs, and his skin raises each hair on his body. “I suppose you’re right though. I should smile more often.”

“How often do you see your son?”

“Not enough I suppose.”

“Your fault or hers?”

He has never admitted it before. “Mine…all mine.”

There’s a noise in the back of the theater and he looks passed her. Someone is coming in, his hair wet as well as his shoulders. It’s raining out. Tawny turns toward the noise, but doesn’t get up. A tall man, Adam Phillips the manager of the theater, comes on stage, leaning over Tawny, kissing her lips. A bit of jealousy rises and falls in his stomach. It’s her husband, he’s her husband. She was here for him.

“I see you’ve met Jack,” he says as he helps his wife stand, both of her hands in his.

She smiles. “I have.”

“This reminds me Tawny, I have some work to do, so I won’t be around for dinner tonight.”

There’s silence. He sees Tawny’s disappointment, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead she smiles, closing her eyes as he kisses her lips again. Then Adam turns to him. “So Jack, soon you’re going to have something for us to listen to?”

He nods. He really isn’t sure he’ll have anything for them to listen to, but he lies anyway. Then they’re alone again, Adam has left as soon as he came. He plays a small little medley, breaking the silence, and she turns to him, resting her hand on the piano. He wants to ask about Adam, but doesn’t want to upset her.

“I should be going," she says, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

He nods then realizes that she can’t see it. “Ah Tawny.”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

She contemplates then smiles. “Yes, I would like that.”

He stands, closing the piano cover then he waits next to her. She reaches for him; she wants his help back down. He wraps her arm around his, and slowly leads her back down. Together they walk to the doors, and he opens them, the sound of rain catches her attention and she takes a deep breath. She’s reaching down for a blue umbrella that stands upright against the wall, and he tells her that he’ll get it, and opens it as they step outside. Again she wraps her arm around his, and they walk out into the rain, she’s holding tight to him to make sure she’s covered by the umbrella. Then they stop at a cross walk, and she holds her hand out, catching the rain drops, moving her fingers the same way she did when she touched his face. She’s feeling each one, getting the best look she can. He smiles and they start walking again.

“How do you know you can trust me?” he asks.

“I don’t.”

He leads her up to his apartment. He wants to show her pictures of his son, but he’s not use to the fact that she can’t see that she’ll never see him. He sits her down on the couch, and gets her something warm to drink, tea that he's surprised is even in his cupboards. He has a glass of Scotch two ice cubes and she’s picked up on this.

“How often do you drink?”

He takes a drink, wondering if he can just lie to her or not, tell her it’s really just water, but she’s no fool, and isn’t going to make her out to be one. “A few times…I’m not an alcoholic if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, that’s not what I’m asking.”

There’s silence.

“How long have you been blind?”

“Since I was a little girl.”

“You mean you were able to see before?”

“Clearly for a while then it went away…slowly went away.”

“What do you do all day?”

“What do you do?” She takes a drink of her tea.

Again he feels it, the foolishness. He thought it was a perfectly logical question.

“You have to release that…let it go.”

“What?”

“What you’re feeling. Some anger that you have, the sound in your voice that lets me know what’s really inside you.”

“You can tell what I’m like on the inside from my voice?”

“Everything is heightened in other areas, but don’t think if I could see I’d be a fool.”

He sets down the glass, feeling a little ashamed to be drinking. Then he takes the half empty cup from her hands. He looks at her for a second, standing above her. He wonders if she can sense that too, him looking at her. “Why don’t you wear sunglasses like everyone else?”

“I’m not ashamed to be blind…”

“But the sun, doesn’t it hurt your eyes?”

“What’s to hurt…my vision?”

“You have beautiful eyes…”

“Yeah?”

“They’re gray, a cloudy gray.”

“I’ve been told that before.” She folds the fabric of her skirt under her fingers. “What do I look like to you?”

“Are you asking it I think you’re pretty?”

“Maybe…I suppose I am in a way.”

“Then yes, I think you’re very beautiful.” He goes into the kitchen, leaning on the counter, trying to compose himself. He looks over at a picture of his son, they have the same smile. He shares an attribute with his son. Too bad he doesn’t share the same integrity as his offspring. When he returns to the living room she’s sitting back, her eyes are closed, but he knows she can’t be sleeping. He wants to ask where she would like to go for dinner, but only watches her instead.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” he says as he sits next to her. She lifts her head and sits up. “How long have you been married?”

“A few years.”

“Above or below two?”

“Above.”

“How long were you married?”

“Fourteen years…”

“What happened then?”

“We happened…we weren’t meant to be I guess.”

“Didn’t you want to make it work?”

He laughs; it’s small, telling her that he was the real reason the marriage didn’t work. The time he spent working instead of with his family.

“Did you love her?”

“I think I did, at one time I must have. Do you love him?”

“Yes…he’s my husband…”

“That doesn’t mean you love him.”

She sits up, resting her elbows on her knees. “I love him very much…I want a family with him.”

He doesn’t mention what he saw on her face earlier in the day. The disappointment at knowing her husband would rather work than spend time with her. Instead he offers to take her to a restaurant just down the street. They make more small talk together, and he makes sure she’s safely home before returning home himself. When he’s alone he takes another look at the picture of his son, picking up the phone. It’s late in the evening, but he has to call, has to make sure he’s doing alright. When someone picks up it’s his ex-wife. She says something about being surprised to hear from him, and even more surprised he wants to speak to their son. He waits, and when his son’s voice comes on the other end it hits him like a ton of bricks. There’s a change in his tone, the infection is almost deeper. Has he really missed that much time?

“Hey dad…where are you?”

“At home… “

“That’s cool…when are we going to do something for summer?”

“Oh, soon…I have work that’s due soon, but after that I’m all freed up.”

“Maybe we can go camping or something.”

“Maybe…you pick…”

“I should be going…I have a lot of chores to do.”

“Are you excited for school?”

“Yeah, but not for the homework.”

“Make sure you do it all though.”

His son laughs. “I will…I’ll talk to you later.”

“I love you…”

“I love you too dad…do you want to talk to mom?”

“No…I’ll talk to her later.”

“Okay…”

The dial tone comes on. His son has hung up the phone, one click and he’s gone. He looks over to his piano; it’s actually calling him this time. He hasn’t heard such beckoning in a long time. It’s immediate, the music that flows out of him. It’s mixed between two beings, two people that have taken all of his attention, and he pounds at the keys, scribbling the notes down like a spreading wildfire. It’s almost as if he can’t write fast enough.

***
He's sitting across from Tawny. They're having dinner again; he's been given the chance to be alone with her. The music from the piano player floats over them, and she reaches down on the table, searching for her glass. He pushes it forward to reach her fingers sooner, and she smiles, thanking him. He looks down a level below them. There are couples dancing to sweet Jazz music, it's slow, and they're close to each other. He wishes Tawny could see them, but she's content just to hear the music, and is tilting her head to better hear it. He wonders if she's ever danced before, and takes a drink of his water, something she would prefer him to drink then stands.

"Would you care to dance?"

She tilts her head to the sound of his voice. "I don't know how."

"You've never danced with Adam?"

"No..."

He's suspected so, and reaches for her hand. It surprises her, and she jumps a little then stands, both of her hands are on his wrists. He wraps her arm around his and slowly leads her to the dance floor. There are people that are looking at them, he figures its because she's so beautiful instead of her blindness. As he leads her to the floor he stands in front of her again, pulling her close. Now she's tight against his body, her arm is around his neck and her hand is in his. She's beautiful.

"There's nothing really to it," he says and she laughs. He pulls away, turning her. It's a little much for her, but she recovers gracefully, her hand is on his forearms and she moves it up his shoulder to put her arm around his neck. There's a sweet scent floating around her, and he closes his eyes, resting his chin near the top of her head. This must be how she feels, the music engulfing her mind as it is his, and the touch of her close is enchanting. He wants more.

“I’ve called him?”

“Who?” she asks as he dips her, causing her to smile.

He smiles at her happiness as he brings her up. “My son…I called him.”

“Is that an accomplishment for you?”

“Oddly enough, it is.”

***
Adam is watching his wife. She’s with him, her eyes closed tight as Jack plays at the piano. He wonders why she’s taken such an interest, and feels jealous. As the notes float into the room she’s holding her hands tight together, her eyes are closed. Even when they make love she’s never been so entranced. She’s beautiful. Afterwards his kisses her on the cheek, touching her soft hair, and rest his forehead against the side of her head. He can feel her already asking if something is the matter, and he resigns himself, pulling away to keep his feeling a secret.

***
Jack closes the cover to the piano, he’s alone in the theater now, and everyone has left, hopefully feeling the same sensation he was, the love he was feeling. Then he hears the doors open, and feels, wishing its Tawny, but it’s Adam. There’s a look on the young mans face he’s seen before on is own face, looking in the mirror. The look is fear.

“It was perfect Jack,” Adam says as he comes up on stage. He runs his hand along the piano. “I love her you know…”

“Do you?”

“She’s my wife…”

“Doesn’t mean you really love her.”

“More than you could ever know,” Adam says defensively.

He laughs. “Pay more attention to her then, if you really love her.”

“Have you been with her?”

He shakes his head. “No…she loves you. You really should be more careful…take more time with the people that really matter.”

“I love her-”

“Then show her!”

“You think you know about us…you think you know Tawny.”

“I know about you all too well…I’ve lived more years on this planet than you have. I’ve made more mistakes than you have, so I know you…I’ve seen it before.” He steps down, feeling a little satisfied that such a young man would be jealous of him, of the way he looks at his wife. Perhaps it was the years he’s been alive, or the way Tawny makes him feel, but he can sense there’s something inside her that’s drawing him close to her. He looks one last time up at Adam, and can still see the look. It’s still full of fear, believing he’s lost what he loves because of his other dedications, things that use to be important to him but seem so pointless now.

He’s home only fifteen minutes when there’s a knock at the door. When he opens it, Tawny stands before him, her face is blank. “How’d you get here?”

“What’d you say to him?”

“Who?” he asks as he steps aside. She walks in passed him, stopping a few feet in. She doesn’t know his apartment yet.

“Adam?” she asks, her back is to him. “What’d you say to him?”

“Why?”

“Answer me,” she stresses.

He rounds her. “I told him he should take more time with the people he loves…he should spend more time with you…why…what’s wrong?” He tries to take her hands. “What’s happened?”

She takes back her hands. “He thinks we’ve slept together…we’ve never…I would never betray him…I love him-”

“In the past few days he’s barely even spoken to you…”

“You don’t know us…you don’t know me-”

“I’ve been in his place already. I know where he’s going, and that you should be treated better. That I can treat you better.”

“No.”

He takes her hands, but she takes them back. “Tawny I’ve never felt for anyone the way I feel for you.”

“No…”

“You’re my inspiration…the music is for you…”

“You don’t understand…”

He pulls her close, kissing her before she can deny him, and he feels her release just a little bit, but only a small amount. He wonders why, how it is she can love Adam when he doesn’t even know how to love her. When he pulls away from her she’s silent. He can see she was feeling for him too, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I can’t Jack…he’s my husband.” He tries to grab her hand again, but she backs away as soon as his fingertips touch her skin. “No…we’re going to be a family…I’m having his child.”

He stops, looking at her, wanting to beg her to stay, but nothing comes out. He wants to ask if she loves him, but he can’t move his tongue. He wants to kiss her again, but he can’t move his feet. He’s a fool, a complete fool. She stands, seemingly petrified of him, but she doesn’t run.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to lead you on…”

“No, you didn’t lead me on.”

“Then why are you telling me this…why are you saying you love me when you know nothing about me?”

He stands silent, contemplating an answer that might suit her. His face is twisted in anxiety, knowing the next words he says to her are crucial. How can he ask a married woman to forsake her vows? Does he even want to? Would she be tainted then? He backs away from her as if the distance will slow down his rapid, beating heart. She’s turned her face away from him again; her arms are crossed over her chest. He can see that she feels vulnerable like a defenseless creature in a wild jungle. However, there is nothing he would do to dishonor her, and he concedes, resigning himself to respect her decision.

“Tawny…”

She looks up towards the sound of his voice.

“I’m sorry; I was out of line…” He moves a little closer to her. It’s hard to give her away even though she was never really his. “I respect you I do, and I sincerely apologize for my behavior.” She reaches her arms out, she’s searching for him, and he moves closer. Slowly she moves her hands to find his face, closing her eyes as she moves her fingers down his cheeks. She stops at his lips, pulling his face closer to hers. She whispers something to him, it’s a good-bye, and she kisses him. As she turns away he doesn’t try to pull her back. He lets her leave on her own, hoping she’ll get home okay on her own, but she’s found her way to his apartment. She doesn’t need him. She’s not helpless far from it, and he realizes how much he has been lacking in the years. He looks over to the picture of his son then to the door. He’s done the right thing; she’s made a vow before God, and he knows she must honor it despite what he believes. He can hear her now are you a proud father. He is, very proud, and picks up the phone. It’s time, stop wasting it.