Still More Fruits of Writing Exercises
Too many of these are spawned by memories of him....but they all have a cathartic effect.
1.
It is warm outside. Too warm for the last day of December. Its as if the cosmos have warped in precision with the grotesque shape this relationship has taken on. My hands are rammed into the pockets of a puffy black vest, which I am wearing like bubble wrap to create a buffer between he and I-- and the pain, which I know is coming, but from which it is already too late to run.
Like a woman resolved to step off a platform into the path of a freight train, I take my first step. All the while, I am clutching my iPod so tightly that I momentarily consider the notion that the perspiration forming in my grip may damage the electronics.
He is there, wearing the hat that I knitted for him. Tweed-color. Ash, flecked with autumnal hues. It rests naturally on his pale forehead, though it clashes slightly with the slate-colored hooded sweatshirt he is wearing over blue jeans.
He is giving me that look. The lopsided, slack-jawed grin. One eye, slightly bulging. It is cartoonish and child-like in every way. There is a youthful innocence about him that belies his 30 hard years of a life wrecklessly lived.
His hands are full. A cup of coffee for me. A cup for him. He offers it and I cannot look into those almost-twinkling blue eyes without my own spilling over.
"Are you breaking up with me?" he chides. He is jovial. He sees my turmoil. He knows what is coming. Feels the anguish that I picture is radiating around me like a forcefield.
"Can we not talk about this here?" I ask.
"Uh...ok," he shrugs. He really doesn't get it.
But he does.
The real issue is that he just doesn't care.
2.
"Its cold out there."
She says this as she zips up the wilted, paper-like sweater that he had given her so many Christmases ago. The deep grooves in her puckered cheeks resemble the rings of a carved oak. He wonders if he could count them. Wind them back to the days when everything was still real. Before the forced smiles and stiff kisses. Before the itchy fidgets and abrasive silences.
It is only in her hands, which never seem to suffer the consequences of passing time that he can still see shadows of that time. Not even the ring he gave her--tarnished, scratched, prongs askew-- can detract from those flawless, youthful hands.
1.
It is warm outside. Too warm for the last day of December. Its as if the cosmos have warped in precision with the grotesque shape this relationship has taken on. My hands are rammed into the pockets of a puffy black vest, which I am wearing like bubble wrap to create a buffer between he and I-- and the pain, which I know is coming, but from which it is already too late to run.
Like a woman resolved to step off a platform into the path of a freight train, I take my first step. All the while, I am clutching my iPod so tightly that I momentarily consider the notion that the perspiration forming in my grip may damage the electronics.
He is there, wearing the hat that I knitted for him. Tweed-color. Ash, flecked with autumnal hues. It rests naturally on his pale forehead, though it clashes slightly with the slate-colored hooded sweatshirt he is wearing over blue jeans.
He is giving me that look. The lopsided, slack-jawed grin. One eye, slightly bulging. It is cartoonish and child-like in every way. There is a youthful innocence about him that belies his 30 hard years of a life wrecklessly lived.
His hands are full. A cup of coffee for me. A cup for him. He offers it and I cannot look into those almost-twinkling blue eyes without my own spilling over.
"Are you breaking up with me?" he chides. He is jovial. He sees my turmoil. He knows what is coming. Feels the anguish that I picture is radiating around me like a forcefield.
"Can we not talk about this here?" I ask.
"Uh...ok," he shrugs. He really doesn't get it.
But he does.
The real issue is that he just doesn't care.
2.
"Its cold out there."
She says this as she zips up the wilted, paper-like sweater that he had given her so many Christmases ago. The deep grooves in her puckered cheeks resemble the rings of a carved oak. He wonders if he could count them. Wind them back to the days when everything was still real. Before the forced smiles and stiff kisses. Before the itchy fidgets and abrasive silences.
It is only in her hands, which never seem to suffer the consequences of passing time that he can still see shadows of that time. Not even the ring he gave her--tarnished, scratched, prongs askew-- can detract from those flawless, youthful hands.