Dave and I were standing in the lunch queue chatting, when Dave suddenly went quiet and started making sideways nodding movements with his head that I took to mean, “Look over there.”
I looked in the direction his head was pointing, but couldn’t see anything in particular; so I looked back at Dave and his eyes were wide, asking me a question I didn’t understand; so I pursed my lips and gave a barely visible, Soap-Opera like, shake of my head, trying to let him know that I didn’t know what he was on about.
“That’s her,” he hissed.
I tried on my best quizzical look, which seemed to work because Dave responded with, “You know, the one I was telling you about.”
To be honest, Dave had been going on about some girl for weeks. He’d first seen her walking across the Quad at interval, and I think he’d skipped a few classes to wait down the Quad “just in the hope” as he called it.
Dave had started head gesturing again, so I had a good look around, and this time I saw her.
“Oh,” I said.
“Oh?” Dave fixed me with a stare that said “If you know anything about her, tell me now.”
“Yeah well, I asked her out is all.”
“You?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Well, what did she say?”
Dave was starting to fidget like an ADHD kid on raspberry cordial. I don’t think he noticed that my cheeks were glowing red, or that my hands were getting sweaty. I looked down at my feet, trying to hide my face, and pushed my hands deep into my pockets. I remember there was some moss growing between the paving stones, and a flattened white drinking-straw near my right foot.
“Well?” Dave repeated: almost a demand this time.
“She said she had a boyfriend,” I mumbled. And then I said “I just remembered I need to be somewhere.”
Dave didn’t want to let it go.
“Perhaps she just told you that because she didn’t like you?” Clearly my feelings were not Dave’s top priority.
“Thanks mate,” I said and started to turn away. I’d forgotten about lunch and just wanted to be on my own.
“Tell me about it later then. I’ve got to get her to go out with me.” Dave sounded exasperated.
She was looking at me as I started to walk away.
Her eyes were sad. She gave me that smile that’s not really a smile, where you press your lips together and look the other person right in the eye.
In my mind the lunchtime Quad was silent: just her and me. And there was an ache in my chest, and tension between my eyebrows.
And in that moment, I knew I wasn’t a kid anymore; I felt older; I felt pain; I felt alive.
I walked on.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Saturday, August 07, 2010
A Fist Full of Fingers
Every Friday afternoon, at four o’clock on the dot, someone would plonk a frosty bottle on Shane’s desk, smile at him and say, “Beer o’clock mate,” as if they’d just invented the expression.
Shane would twist his lips into a smile, give a thin, watery, “Thank-you” and turn back to his work.
At five o’clock on the dot, Shane would drop the unopened bottle into his rubbish bin, and head home.
Shane always watched the same movie, a Western, he knew it by heart.
An unforgiving sun bakes a barren landscape and highlights every line, every contour, of the face of a man with no name.
The camera holds this unflinching face, the hero’s face, far longer than is polite. The face is strong and stoic, brave and uncompromising. It is the face of a man who has no doubts and no rules. It is the face of a man not afraid of who he is.
At the end of the movie Shane finds he is still holding the remote, his thumb still on the play button. He looks down at his arm, his hand, and is reminded that he is not a man with no name: he is Shane.
Every Friday night Shane dreams the same dream: a lens-flare world; a wind blown street; a faceless crowd; a gun fighter; an empty holster. There will be a shot. He will fall to the ground. Rattling spurs will come towards him; and the Man with No Name will be standing over him.
One Friday afternoon, at four o’clock on the dot, Shane swivelled his chair at precisely the same moment as a beer was landing on his desk.
“Not tonight thank-you,” said Shane with force.
“But it’s beer o’clock.”
Shane narrowed his eyes and turned back to his work.
At five o’clock on the dot, Shane headed home. He watched the same movie, had the same realisation and went to bed expecting the same dream.
But that night the dream was different. The hot wind felt the same, and his holster was as empty as ever. The same jangling spurs were coming towards him as he fell to the ground. But as he looked up he didn’t see the Man with No Name: he saw himself.
Shane woke-up happy.
Shane would twist his lips into a smile, give a thin, watery, “Thank-you” and turn back to his work.
At five o’clock on the dot, Shane would drop the unopened bottle into his rubbish bin, and head home.
Shane always watched the same movie, a Western, he knew it by heart.
An unforgiving sun bakes a barren landscape and highlights every line, every contour, of the face of a man with no name.
The camera holds this unflinching face, the hero’s face, far longer than is polite. The face is strong and stoic, brave and uncompromising. It is the face of a man who has no doubts and no rules. It is the face of a man not afraid of who he is.
At the end of the movie Shane finds he is still holding the remote, his thumb still on the play button. He looks down at his arm, his hand, and is reminded that he is not a man with no name: he is Shane.
Every Friday night Shane dreams the same dream: a lens-flare world; a wind blown street; a faceless crowd; a gun fighter; an empty holster. There will be a shot. He will fall to the ground. Rattling spurs will come towards him; and the Man with No Name will be standing over him.
One Friday afternoon, at four o’clock on the dot, Shane swivelled his chair at precisely the same moment as a beer was landing on his desk.
“Not tonight thank-you,” said Shane with force.
“But it’s beer o’clock.”
Shane narrowed his eyes and turned back to his work.
At five o’clock on the dot, Shane headed home. He watched the same movie, had the same realisation and went to bed expecting the same dream.
But that night the dream was different. The hot wind felt the same, and his holster was as empty as ever. The same jangling spurs were coming towards him as he fell to the ground. But as he looked up he didn’t see the Man with No Name: he saw himself.
Shane woke-up happy.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Joy
Emma wanted to be a cool breeze on a hot day. She wanted to be happy and free: but she wasn’t.
Life was much heavier than Emma had hoped, much more sticky and spider-webby than she had once thought; life was beginning to wear on her.
Every morning Emma would go to _La Petite Café_ to think. She would order a coffee, and write in her diary. She wrote slowly, occasionally gazing out the window, trying to find the right words to describe her feelings. On this day she wrote, “My heart is not a spring in a box. My heart is like a rower on a midnight lake.”
She closed the little diary and slowly stirred her coffee, looking at the swirling liquid as one might stare into the embers of a dying fire.
She sat this way for some time, then shook her head, and picked up a novel. The book had been loaned to her by a colleague and she felt obliged to finish it, despite it being far from her own taste.
A loud bang broke her reverie; a young man had pushed the café door closed when he was trying to open it. Emma could see a deep redness in the man's face; he was clearly uncomfortable and nervous; she wanted to jump up, to hold his hand and tell him that everything was okay. As soon as she saw him she wanted to be near him.
The young man ordered coffee and, with shaky hands, carried it to an empty table.
Not wanting to stare, she picked up the book again and tried to immerse herself in the content. “This is ridiculous,” she thought and laughed aloud “who reads this rubbish?”.
Emma closed the book around her thumb, “Number One Best Seller,” the cover proclaimed.
“Will I read this book to please someone I hardly know and yet not make the effort to go and talk to that man, do something to make myself happy?”
She looked at the young man again, he was writing in his diary. He wrote quickly, erratically. She could see the tension in his movements, the sweat on his forehead, and she longed to be his cool breeze.
“Oh, why don’t I just go and talk to him?” she wondered to herself. But even as she thought this, she knew she wouldn’t do it, and her heart was heavy with sadness.
When the man got up to leave, Emma tried desperately to send him a smile, but he marched out of the café and was gone.
Life was much heavier than Emma had hoped, much more sticky and spider-webby than she had once thought; life was beginning to wear on her.
Every morning Emma would go to _La Petite Café_ to think. She would order a coffee, and write in her diary. She wrote slowly, occasionally gazing out the window, trying to find the right words to describe her feelings. On this day she wrote, “My heart is not a spring in a box. My heart is like a rower on a midnight lake.”
She closed the little diary and slowly stirred her coffee, looking at the swirling liquid as one might stare into the embers of a dying fire.
She sat this way for some time, then shook her head, and picked up a novel. The book had been loaned to her by a colleague and she felt obliged to finish it, despite it being far from her own taste.
A loud bang broke her reverie; a young man had pushed the café door closed when he was trying to open it. Emma could see a deep redness in the man's face; he was clearly uncomfortable and nervous; she wanted to jump up, to hold his hand and tell him that everything was okay. As soon as she saw him she wanted to be near him.
The young man ordered coffee and, with shaky hands, carried it to an empty table.
Not wanting to stare, she picked up the book again and tried to immerse herself in the content. “This is ridiculous,” she thought and laughed aloud “who reads this rubbish?”.
Emma closed the book around her thumb, “Number One Best Seller,” the cover proclaimed.
“Will I read this book to please someone I hardly know and yet not make the effort to go and talk to that man, do something to make myself happy?”
She looked at the young man again, he was writing in his diary. He wrote quickly, erratically. She could see the tension in his movements, the sweat on his forehead, and she longed to be his cool breeze.
“Oh, why don’t I just go and talk to him?” she wondered to herself. But even as she thought this, she knew she wouldn’t do it, and her heart was heavy with sadness.
When the man got up to leave, Emma tried desperately to send him a smile, but he marched out of the café and was gone.
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Mediocrity Principle
Long ago, in a far distant land, there lived a man named Nicolaus Copernicus. You may wonder how we know of a man who lived so long ago and so far away. Well, Nicolaus Copernicus made, quite literally, a revolutionary discovery.
Now, as anyone will tell you, for revolution you need three things: oxygen, fuel and heat. Nicolaus Copernicus lived in a time with plenty of all three. But we are getting ahead of the story.
Nicolaus Copernicus was a stargazer. Not the kind of stargazer you or I think of when we think of that word; he wasn’t the type to lie lazily about, staring up into the firmament, dreaming of romance or adventure: quite the contrary in fact. Nicolaus Copernicus would never look at the stars unless he was holding his notebook, a pencil and some instrument that looked more magical than mathematical.
You see, in Nicolaus Copernicus's time, people believed that the World was the centre of the Universe. They believed that Earth was fixed in space, and our sun, our moon, and all the other stars and planets danced around us in a joyous celestial twirling motion. Nicolaus Copernicus wasn’t sure this was true. What started as a quest for the arcane, soon revealed a startling truth: Earth revolves around Sun.
Well, Nicolaus Copernicus understood that this discovery, this revelation if you will, might upset a few people, and so, for the most part at least, he kept his ideas under his zucchetto.
Meanwhile, the man on the street was under pressure. The ancient Greeks, with their rosy sunsets and myriad gods, had set the stage for the world being, well, a stage. You might think, and I would agree with you, that being the centre of the Universe would make one feel pretty good about oneself. But people were sick of being looked down upon, of always being watched. It was time for the gods to step back a few light-years and let the world wheel as the world would wheel: around the sun.
When Nicolaus Copernicus’s ideas finally got out into the public arena the world was ready for revolution.
Before Nicolaus Copernicus died he speculated that, since we aren’t at the centre of the Universe, what had happened once, that is to say: you, me and the whole World, could, given the right conditions, happen again. He said this in a nice way, so people didn’t get too upset with him. And so it was that Nicolaus Copernicus made mediocrity not only okay, but a Universal truth, and a good many people breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Now, as anyone will tell you, for revolution you need three things: oxygen, fuel and heat. Nicolaus Copernicus lived in a time with plenty of all three. But we are getting ahead of the story.
Nicolaus Copernicus was a stargazer. Not the kind of stargazer you or I think of when we think of that word; he wasn’t the type to lie lazily about, staring up into the firmament, dreaming of romance or adventure: quite the contrary in fact. Nicolaus Copernicus would never look at the stars unless he was holding his notebook, a pencil and some instrument that looked more magical than mathematical.
You see, in Nicolaus Copernicus's time, people believed that the World was the centre of the Universe. They believed that Earth was fixed in space, and our sun, our moon, and all the other stars and planets danced around us in a joyous celestial twirling motion. Nicolaus Copernicus wasn’t sure this was true. What started as a quest for the arcane, soon revealed a startling truth: Earth revolves around Sun.
Well, Nicolaus Copernicus understood that this discovery, this revelation if you will, might upset a few people, and so, for the most part at least, he kept his ideas under his zucchetto.
Meanwhile, the man on the street was under pressure. The ancient Greeks, with their rosy sunsets and myriad gods, had set the stage for the world being, well, a stage. You might think, and I would agree with you, that being the centre of the Universe would make one feel pretty good about oneself. But people were sick of being looked down upon, of always being watched. It was time for the gods to step back a few light-years and let the world wheel as the world would wheel: around the sun.
When Nicolaus Copernicus’s ideas finally got out into the public arena the world was ready for revolution.
Before Nicolaus Copernicus died he speculated that, since we aren’t at the centre of the Universe, what had happened once, that is to say: you, me and the whole World, could, given the right conditions, happen again. He said this in a nice way, so people didn’t get too upset with him. And so it was that Nicolaus Copernicus made mediocrity not only okay, but a Universal truth, and a good many people breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Heart
Billy wanted to be the kind of easygoing person that everyone likes. He wanted to be cool: but he wasn’t.
Every morning Billy walked past _La Petite Café_ and saw all the happy customers reading or chatting or laughing, normal people who didn’t have a single care. Every morning Billy thought, “I’m going to go in there one day.”
One morning he awoke before sunrise and, after trying for some time to get back to sleep, he got out of bed and sat near a window watching the distant city lights. Today was the day.
It was a crisp morning in the middle of winter; the moon was hiding in the daytime sky and Billy was watching the café from across the road. His bloodless hands felt tingly and alien. His pulse thumped clearly in his left ear.
“Today is the day,” Billy told himself as he walked towards the café.
He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle, pulled when he should have pushed: the door closed with a bang. Everyone turned to look at him. His face flushed and he felt a cold bead of sweat ran from his armpit.
This wasn’t how he thought it would be.
Once inside he shuffled to the counter his fists clenched tight. He scrunched up his toes too when the waitress asked him to repeat his order.
Billy collected his cup and walked with great caution towards an empty table. There was a pool of cold coffee in his saucer by the time he sat down. His face was burning; his hands cold, damp and shaky.
“Today is the day,” Billy repeated to himself as he pulled a diary and a pen out of his bag.
Turning to a blank page he wrote, “Amongst the Spheres,”
He stopped and frowned at what he’d written.
After some moments he added, “Darkness for light-years.”
He was pulled from his reverie by the laughter of a young woman at an adjacent table. She was engrossed in a book and didn’t seem to care that people were looking at her.
It was then that he realised that what he’d hoped for hadn’t come to pass. His release, his transformation, his metamorphosis, hadn’t taken place.
“Damn this fear,” he thought. “And now I’ve stayed too long; they’re waiting to get my table back.” He started to panic, flung his diary into his bag and marched out of the shop.
He didn’t see the girl with the book trying to catch his eye as he left.
Every morning Billy walked past _La Petite Café_ and saw all the happy customers reading or chatting or laughing, normal people who didn’t have a single care. Every morning Billy thought, “I’m going to go in there one day.”
One morning he awoke before sunrise and, after trying for some time to get back to sleep, he got out of bed and sat near a window watching the distant city lights. Today was the day.
It was a crisp morning in the middle of winter; the moon was hiding in the daytime sky and Billy was watching the café from across the road. His bloodless hands felt tingly and alien. His pulse thumped clearly in his left ear.
“Today is the day,” Billy told himself as he walked towards the café.
He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle, pulled when he should have pushed: the door closed with a bang. Everyone turned to look at him. His face flushed and he felt a cold bead of sweat ran from his armpit.
This wasn’t how he thought it would be.
Once inside he shuffled to the counter his fists clenched tight. He scrunched up his toes too when the waitress asked him to repeat his order.
Billy collected his cup and walked with great caution towards an empty table. There was a pool of cold coffee in his saucer by the time he sat down. His face was burning; his hands cold, damp and shaky.
“Today is the day,” Billy repeated to himself as he pulled a diary and a pen out of his bag.
Turning to a blank page he wrote, “Amongst the Spheres,”
He stopped and frowned at what he’d written.
After some moments he added, “Darkness for light-years.”
He was pulled from his reverie by the laughter of a young woman at an adjacent table. She was engrossed in a book and didn’t seem to care that people were looking at her.
It was then that he realised that what he’d hoped for hadn’t come to pass. His release, his transformation, his metamorphosis, hadn’t taken place.
“Damn this fear,” he thought. “And now I’ve stayed too long; they’re waiting to get my table back.” He started to panic, flung his diary into his bag and marched out of the shop.
He didn’t see the girl with the book trying to catch his eye as he left.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Fearless Andrew Biggs
Andrew Biggs never said no to a dare. I remember one day the bell rang and he shot out of class and climbed straight up the flagpole. He had that crooked-tooth grin on his face and you would’ve thought it was all his idea, if you hadn’t known that Simon Parker had slipped him a note in the middle of Maths.
You could tell he wasn’t just doing it for the attention though. Hell, he just clung to the top of that old white-flagpole with a kind of wistful look on his face; just hung there admiring the view, oblivious to the crowd gathering below him.
Then a teacher heard all the fuss and called out, “Mr. Biggs, if you would be so kind as to join us down here on planet earth. You and I need to have a little chat about the school rules.”
Andrew just slid down that flagpole like it was a fireman’s pole and landed right at the teacher’s feet. He had that crooked-tooth grin on his face and not the slightest hint of fear in his eyes.
Andrew was the kid in the back row of the class photo, that photo where all the boys look awkward and half the girls are hiding behind their hair. Andrew’s in that back row, his crooked-tooth grin turned up to 10, making rabbit ears behind Mr. Peterson’s head.
Anyway, the real story started when someone dared Andrew to kiss Katie Miller during English.
Andrew got out of his desk, walked over to Katie, and gave her a kiss on the cheek an Alsatian would’ve been proud of.
“Andrew Biggs get your grubby hands off Katie Miller and get back to your desk. NOW,” Mr. Peterson yelled.
Throwing chalk had been banned the year before but you could tell Mr. Peterson really wanted to throw some then.
The rest of the class was dead silent pretending to work, but Andrew just sauntered back to his desk and sat down as if nothing had happened.
He probably would’ve gotten away with it too if he hadn’t said, “Hey Katie; do you want to go to the school dance with me?”
Katie, who was still rubbing saliva off her face, looked shocked. But before she could say anything, Mr. Peterson jumped to his feet, grabbed Andrew, and started dragging him out of the class. Andrew had gone too far, not that we blamed him; I mean Katie was okay – for a girl. But her father was a bit of a big-wig and everyone knew Mr. Peterson was afraid of him.
So, Mr. Peterson was dragging Andrew out of the class. Andrew didn’t look worried at all; nope he just walked along with that top-of-the-flag-pole look on his face as if he was having a nice relaxing stroll in the park. We were all a bit worried that Andrew would get the strap, but what happened next was worse.
Mr. Peterson was being pretty rough and Andrew wasn’t looking where he was going, so his feet got tangled in Simon Parker’s desk; he fell forward and landed on his head.
There was quite a lot of blood and we all had to go outside and play. An ambulance came and they took Andrew away on a stretcher.
We didn’t see Andrew for a few weeks but we heard he had been in a coma so that was pretty cool. When he came back he was all different and when Katie asked him if he still wanted to go to the dance, well I would have sworn he looked scared. He just shuffled off as if nothing had happened.
Mr. Peterson had to get a new job but our new teacher told us that Andrew might not remember all of us now and we shouldn’t tease him.
Simon Parker had just one thing to say to Andrew, “I dare you to climb the flagpole at lunchtime.”
Well, when the bell rang, Andrew shuffled out of the class and slowly climbed that old white-flagpole. He was only halfway up when he began to look all scared and then he started to cry. We were all embarrassed and the fire brigade had to come and get him down.
I heard a teacher whispering that Andrew was probably better off – everyone needed some fear – but I wasn’t sure.
Anyway, Andrew’s parents moved him to another school after that and we just got on with life. Simon Parker took Katie Miller to the dance and that was the last most people thought about Andrew Biggs.
I still wonder what happened to him though: to Andrew I mean. I miss that crooked-tooth grin of his. Well gee, I mean, it was nice knowing someone who wasn’t always afraid of everything.
You could tell he wasn’t just doing it for the attention though. Hell, he just clung to the top of that old white-flagpole with a kind of wistful look on his face; just hung there admiring the view, oblivious to the crowd gathering below him.
Then a teacher heard all the fuss and called out, “Mr. Biggs, if you would be so kind as to join us down here on planet earth. You and I need to have a little chat about the school rules.”
Andrew just slid down that flagpole like it was a fireman’s pole and landed right at the teacher’s feet. He had that crooked-tooth grin on his face and not the slightest hint of fear in his eyes.
Andrew was the kid in the back row of the class photo, that photo where all the boys look awkward and half the girls are hiding behind their hair. Andrew’s in that back row, his crooked-tooth grin turned up to 10, making rabbit ears behind Mr. Peterson’s head.
Anyway, the real story started when someone dared Andrew to kiss Katie Miller during English.
Andrew got out of his desk, walked over to Katie, and gave her a kiss on the cheek an Alsatian would’ve been proud of.
“Andrew Biggs get your grubby hands off Katie Miller and get back to your desk. NOW,” Mr. Peterson yelled.
Throwing chalk had been banned the year before but you could tell Mr. Peterson really wanted to throw some then.
The rest of the class was dead silent pretending to work, but Andrew just sauntered back to his desk and sat down as if nothing had happened.
He probably would’ve gotten away with it too if he hadn’t said, “Hey Katie; do you want to go to the school dance with me?”
Katie, who was still rubbing saliva off her face, looked shocked. But before she could say anything, Mr. Peterson jumped to his feet, grabbed Andrew, and started dragging him out of the class. Andrew had gone too far, not that we blamed him; I mean Katie was okay – for a girl. But her father was a bit of a big-wig and everyone knew Mr. Peterson was afraid of him.
So, Mr. Peterson was dragging Andrew out of the class. Andrew didn’t look worried at all; nope he just walked along with that top-of-the-flag-pole look on his face as if he was having a nice relaxing stroll in the park. We were all a bit worried that Andrew would get the strap, but what happened next was worse.
Mr. Peterson was being pretty rough and Andrew wasn’t looking where he was going, so his feet got tangled in Simon Parker’s desk; he fell forward and landed on his head.
There was quite a lot of blood and we all had to go outside and play. An ambulance came and they took Andrew away on a stretcher.
We didn’t see Andrew for a few weeks but we heard he had been in a coma so that was pretty cool. When he came back he was all different and when Katie asked him if he still wanted to go to the dance, well I would have sworn he looked scared. He just shuffled off as if nothing had happened.
Mr. Peterson had to get a new job but our new teacher told us that Andrew might not remember all of us now and we shouldn’t tease him.
Simon Parker had just one thing to say to Andrew, “I dare you to climb the flagpole at lunchtime.”
Well, when the bell rang, Andrew shuffled out of the class and slowly climbed that old white-flagpole. He was only halfway up when he began to look all scared and then he started to cry. We were all embarrassed and the fire brigade had to come and get him down.
I heard a teacher whispering that Andrew was probably better off – everyone needed some fear – but I wasn’t sure.
Anyway, Andrew’s parents moved him to another school after that and we just got on with life. Simon Parker took Katie Miller to the dance and that was the last most people thought about Andrew Biggs.
I still wonder what happened to him though: to Andrew I mean. I miss that crooked-tooth grin of his. Well gee, I mean, it was nice knowing someone who wasn’t always afraid of everything.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Argument
Some couples say they never argue as if that one fact encapsulates the truth of their relationship.
We argue.
There is silence and anger and heaviness around the eyes.
“All I’m asking is that you snap it along the lines!” I say too harshly.
“Just because you’re a perfectionist doesn’t mean you do things perfectly,” she retorts.
A barb well thrown, insightful and direct, the kind of statement only someone who loves you could know would hurt you.
My chin lowers, my eyes flash and I am not who I think I am.
I feel my blood pressure rising and I need to take care. My voice could take control of me; speak without inhibition. My soft voice, my sometimes feeble voice, could rise up on a wave. My sometimes shaky voice could pour forth a fire and a fury.
My anger knows no consequence. There is new life in my voice, the breath of life in my sinuses. If I hadn’t spent so much time in this skin I would let this flame flare up inside me – let destruction go where destruction will go.
But experience has shown me the cost.
So I stop myself and stand, flaring and glaring, waiting until my heart relaxes and my soft voice returns.
“You’d think after 50 years we would’ve found better things to argue about.” I say.
She hands me the chocolate – a peace-offering.
“85 percent,” she says with a sad smile.
“Bitter aftertaste,” I say.
“Broken along the lines,” she says.
We argue.
There is silence and anger and heaviness around the eyes.
“All I’m asking is that you snap it along the lines!” I say too harshly.
“Just because you’re a perfectionist doesn’t mean you do things perfectly,” she retorts.
A barb well thrown, insightful and direct, the kind of statement only someone who loves you could know would hurt you.
My chin lowers, my eyes flash and I am not who I think I am.
I feel my blood pressure rising and I need to take care. My voice could take control of me; speak without inhibition. My soft voice, my sometimes feeble voice, could rise up on a wave. My sometimes shaky voice could pour forth a fire and a fury.
My anger knows no consequence. There is new life in my voice, the breath of life in my sinuses. If I hadn’t spent so much time in this skin I would let this flame flare up inside me – let destruction go where destruction will go.
But experience has shown me the cost.
So I stop myself and stand, flaring and glaring, waiting until my heart relaxes and my soft voice returns.
“You’d think after 50 years we would’ve found better things to argue about.” I say.
She hands me the chocolate – a peace-offering.
“85 percent,” she says with a sad smile.
“Bitter aftertaste,” I say.
“Broken along the lines,” she says.
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