I don’t know what to do.

A too-big Batman t-shirt, a tearstained pillow, and two stuffed dogs snuggled close, because I don’t know what to do.

Really bad picture taken from my shitty phone camera. Done by Midge at Revolver Tattoo in New Brunswick, NJ.

He wishes.

My friend Alex is in Italy with his family for ten days and he keeps sending me pictures…this must be some new kind of torture.

Singing Swings

     I couldn’t remember which of the swings squeaked, so I picked one at random and sat wordlessly, swinging only slightly. The chains vibrated in my hands, and I knew they’d sing if I was swinging higher.
     Naturally he picked an adjacent swing and really stared swinging. Before long he was talking. About how he acts weirdly when the moon is full, something about a girl in kindergarten. I looked up at the moon, nearly full, and tried not to listen. When he started on first grade I had to stop him.
     ”Marc.” My voice was flat, quiet. He stopped. “Did you ever think about why I’m not talking?” I don’t remember what he said, but he stopped swinging and came to stand in front of me. “I just want—” my voice caught, and I stared up at the moon.
     ”What, sweetheart?” he said, frantic, on the verge of tears hearing me about to lose it. He hates himself, I think, when he sees me cry. Especially when he thinks it’s his fault.
     ”I want to be alone, please just leave me alone.” I said it a hundred times, but he refused to go. “Then just stop talking, please.” I was begging.
     He returned to his swing and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started talking again. And it wasn’t, maybe a minute. “Marc,” I said. Pained, still begging. And frustrated, too. This was why I’d asked him to leave.
     I started swinging in earnest, staring up at the moon. It was still fairly low, its outline hazy behind gauzy clouds. The sky was a deep purple, the moon a pale gold behind the clouds. It was quiet, not even crickets, just my swing. The chains sang out a rhythm as I went back and forth, but the words were beyond me.
     He was upset, wanting to talk but knowing I wouldn’t listen. He disappeared into the darkness, leaving me to the moon and the creaky swing with its haunting tune.

Missing Out

     Santiago gave me a one-armed hug and returned to his conversation. I shrugged it off and waited for him to finish, but his friend saw me and struck up his own conversation.
     ”That’s a cool tattoo,” he said, glancing briefly at the fresh ink on my leg. I doubted he really cared. “I’m Wes.”
     ”Renée,” I told him, being friendly and conversational but not overly so.
     ”That’s not a common name. French, right? Are you French?” I nodded, maybe said something in reply, I don’t remember now. The loud music and groups of people weren’t really conducive to conversation, and I used the dynamic of the room to drift away as Wes went back to his previous conversation.
     He found me again later, talking to Mike in the hallway. He seemed almost overbearing, like he was trying too hard. I wasn’t flirting back, I was just talking to a nice-seeming guy. I don’t remember what we talked about—I think he asked about the meaning of my tattoo, and I explained my inherited love of sailing and all things nautical. The conversation drifted aimlessly, until I worked in the phrase ‘my boyfriend.’
     ”Your boyfriend?!” he said, sounding mostly dismayed and only slightly surprised. I nodded and turned to Mike for a moment, who looked about ready to fall asleep on his feet.
     I looked back to Wes, only to find him gone. I looked further down the hallway and found him talking to two girls waiting for the bathroom.
     ”Well alright then,” I said to Mike, motioning to Wes. “If he’s gonna be that obvious, he at least could have asked me if I have any single friends who might be interested.”

That awkward moment when you’re fighting in the laundry room and the girl you hate walks in.

I learned a long time ago that life often introduces young people to situations they are in no way prepared for, even good girls, lucky girls who want for nothing. Sometimes, when you least expect it, you become the girl in the woods. You lose your name because another one is forced on you. You think you are alone until you find books about girls like you. Salvation is certainly among the reasons I read. Reading and writing have always pulled me out of the darkest experiences in my life. Stories have given me a place in which to lose myself. They have allowed me to remember. They have allowed me to forget. They have allowed me to imagine different endings and better possible worlds.

From Roxane Gay’s superb, truly incredible essay on strength, stories, and the Hunger Games. (via mollitudo)

That awkward moment when that sweet guy you liked in elementary school seems like a total douche. :(

Maturity.

     Or apparent lack thereof.
     In high school, there were some guys who were just totally clueless when it came to girls. I was friends with some of them, others I watched from afar. I even dated a guy like that. Unhealthiest thing I ever did, yet learned a lot about myself in the process—but I digress.
     As a teenager I kind of expected guys to be emotionally retarded, and was pleasantly surprised by the few who weren’t. But this is college. I realize guys don’t change overnight, but that’s almost what high school is for: it’s a place where you can fuck up and learn things and then go far, far away and start all over with new knowledge and (hopefully) not fuck up as badly.
     In short, I didn’t expect the level of dumbassery that a guy pulled on my friend: he broke up with her AT A PARTY to hook up with a girl he met at that same party. Obviously high school taught him nothing. Maybe he’s beyond teaching.
     /rant

     It’s so hot—not very humid, but even just sitting in one place not doing anything leaves you feeling sticky. Door and window open all the way, fan on full blast, but nothing helps.
     It’s much too hot to snuggle, and yet I don’t mind his warm chest against my back and his arms around my shoulders. I have a hard time peeling my ear away from his chest, relishing each dull, thudding heartbeat.
     It’s silly how a noise can be so comforting. But after all the tears and trying times, talks of desperate measures, that simple sound of contracting ventricular muscles is so reassuring. Because it means that he’s still here fighting for this crazy girl he’s even crazier to love.

Compass

     “You’re sure we’re going the right direction?” I asked, struggling to hold the entirety of the paper map. I’d insisted we leave the GPS at home and have a real adventure.
     “Define ‘right direction,’” he said, his voice slightly flat, annoyed. “Unless you have a destination in mind, there isn’t one.”
     “Sorry love—old habits die hard. I know you know I’m a control freak.” I cringed, thinking of our short-lived adventure in ballroom dancing. He’d stormed out one day when I wasn’t letting him lead. He made his standard ‘mmmm’ noise and kept his eyes on the road.
     I sighed, pulling out my hair elastic. Top down, summer sun, and the humidity minimized by his inherited speed demon ways.
     “Do you even know which way we’re going? Not that it matters,” I added hurriedly, before he pounced on me again. “Just out of curiosity.”
     “No idea.”
     “Well I don’t have a compass, but the sun is over there…which highway is this?”
     “Eighteen.”
     “Evens run east-west…so I guess we’re going southeast?”
     “Whatever you say sweetheart.”
     “Oh don’t be like that,” I chided, turning up the radio and singing Kelly Clarkson at him, which got me a hint of a smile.

Have your cake and eat it too.

     Threaten to do something bad if I don’t do what you want. So I do what you want. And then you get mad at me because you felt like you had to tell me to do this thing when you shouldn’t have had to. Really?
     Hate to break it to you, but that just makes you an asshole. I’m trying to help you out and do what you want, but then either way you get hurt or mad. And you, of all people, swear by the phrase ‘don’t hurt the ones you love.’ Well sweetheart, that hurts.

“I won’t look.”

     Bob came to a party at the house, and only had a beer or two. He was mostly sober when he gave me a hug and called me his sister-in-law.
     Wayne is a charmer—always a smile for me, a kiss on the cheek, and a ‘how are you, dear?’ He sees how happy I make his son, and apparently that’s enough for him.
     I’m glad they like me—I worried about it at first, but it hasn’t been an issue. Not that it would really matter…he would have ignored them, whatever the consequences, and I would have felt terribly guilty. Everything is so much easier this way.
     I really like his dad. They dropped me off at my dorm earlier and Wayne said, “What, no good night kiss?” I smiled, amused, and walked around the car to Marc’s open window. “I won’t look,” he said.

Gray Spring Day

     The boom of thunder, a flash of lightning. A fleeting downpour and a hasty goodbye. A short trip on a stuffy bus and finally escaping to an overcast sky and a slight drizzle.
     The pond is a new favorite place of mine. Spring has made it lush and green, and on warm days I sit on a bench and bring a notebook. I admire the willow’s trailing boughs, the koi’s gaping mouths disturbing the glassy surface, the turtles ducking underwater as I approach.
     Today is different though. It’s not particularly cold, even with the wayward drops. They make a quiet but soothing sound as they hit the water. I’m transfixed, mesmerized by the concentric circles of ripples forming and quickly fading away, dancing across the pond.
     I stand watching, listening, letting life slip away for a moment. I love stopping to watch nature at work—that is a job I would love to have.