I moved to the new apartment six months ago and every day I get off the freeway at the same exit. Every other day I see Simone. I don’t know where she goes on the off days, but every other day she can be found at this corner.
The first time I saw her I noticed how extraordinary she is. She has perfect sandy dreads emblazoned with blonde highlights. Even a mostly hetero woman like myself can see that the sun has kissed her. And to this day I see a goddess behind her eyes, watching the cars pass by, honking, sometimes at her. She is not Athena or Isis or Hera, but surely an unnamed goddess lives inside of her. We interact but her strongly enforces her own propriety and keeps her to herself, alone. I want to ask her so many questions! I don’t. I swear she soul gazes; she sees more than I want her to see. It’s completely diaphragm disabling. There are very few women who make me shift in my skin.
Yet, I cannot help rolling down my window and relieving my meter cache of everything it holds. The next day I will be frustrated by my lack of quarter pieces and will squeal around corners, hurriedly looking for a space to squeeze my fun-size car. But no matter what, if she holds out her 7-Eleven cup I will test my traffic blocking skills and oblige.
Outside of honking, I’ve never seen anyone harass her. Even the teenage boys from the school down the block do not disturb her though their eyes are glued to her from the moment she comes into view. She dropped her cup once. The boys quickly tried to cross the street to help but were beat by a jogger from the park who immediately slowed down and bent over to help her gather her days work. His eyes shot up when he saw the number of bills scattered across the pavement. As soon as he locked eyes with her he understood. The surprise disappeared. (I saw all of this as I walked my dog a couple dozen yards from them.) We all understand. It’s almost humorous when you see someone new interact with her. People slow down. Sometimes the whole world slows down to inching speed before reality sucks you back in and nearly crashes you into the car ahead of you.
She has a sign. It makes me laugh.
“I’m Simone. I don’t drink or smoke.” The other side says, “Seriously.”
She doesn’t beg or guilt trip the hoards of traffic that pass by her. She does always say thank you.
Today she should be on the corner but she isn’t. She should be there Wednesday and Friday. Each day passes without her presence.
Three weeks later she reappears in the same black tank top, black sandals, and maroon cropped cargo pants. Nothing immediately appears different. I’m glad she is back. I was worried and I doubt I was the only one. We may live in a big city but this little community cares on occasion. I know people were as curious as I was. She is a staple.
I see her now, a few weeks after her reappearance. I no longer give her change. I give her bills and so do the two cars ahead of me.
She has a baby bump.
She no longer nods her thanks. She asks me, sincerely and consistently, “Are you sure?” She looks guilty. Something creaks in her voice. It’s not the creaking of a voice out of practice. No, it’s… um… different. It’s the voice of someone who has been choking on screams.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
I have the imagination of a child. Luckily, I have the endurance of a military nurse. So my nights sleeping behind a bush, under a tree, next to the bridge are not lonely, unless it is raining. I hate rain. But I live in California; I rarely have to worry about loneliness. Plus, when it rains I always wind up having to rewrite my work sign. Drives me crazy.
Anyway, it is a good thing to have a good imagination because then you can have conversations without having to deal with the side effects of talking to people. Strangers are not ideal conversationalists anyway. First you have to get past the small talk. Then you have to get to know each other well enough to talk without walking on egg shells. Plus, some people are too fearless in their conversation. Their assertions or requests are unendurable.
People would tell you I was crazy. I have imaginary friends and I do talk to them. I mean I usually do. I cannot talk to them when it rains. I guess I do not know how to imagine them when they are wet. That is why rain is so lonely. I do know they are not real, but they are consistently more interesting than the few who approach me on my corners. My imaginaries do look like the people I see all the time. For example, there is Carson. He looks like the guy who I see on Tues/Thurs/Sat. He has a lot of cars, thus CARSon. He is rich beyond belief. But my Carson, he is funny, but in a sly way. Like sometimes I cannot tell when he is joking, but then he will wink. It always makes me laugh. He is an investment banker but he looks like a model. He has this really suave looking black hair and he always wears a vest and tie. He is handsome. But smart! He is so smart.
Then there is Erik. Erik is not particularly smart but he is a goofball. He gets into a lot of trouble so I do not get to see him as often as I like. But he always has rowdy stories to tell me. He tells me I have a great smile and an even better laugh. He told me that if I would not laugh at his stories then he would not do as many crazy things. He says he does them to make me laugh.
Reni is like a sister to me. I tell her everything. She does not have a lot to say but she likes to listen. She will sing though. She has a beautiful voice. Reni looks a little bit like you, but not all the way! She has blue eyes and she drives an old red and white truck. I told her what happened. I guess, I mean, I guess I’ll tell you too.
I was not supposed to be there. There are signs everywhere, but it has a lot of trees inside and there is a hole in the fence in one spot. I do not go there often because I know why there are signs. It is right next to the freeway and if a car lost control… well, you and the trees would be out of luck. I just, see, I usually go there when I need to be alone. Alone is different from lonely. Anyway, I was not the only one there. Reni held my hand the entire time. The guy could not see her because Reni is pretend. No one could hear me because of the cars. And because I gave up trying. I mean, what if they heard me and put me in jail for trespassing? I am a good person and just because I do not have a normal home does not mean I am a criminal!
He gets mad if I do not cry. He does not like that I can see through him. He said that. He also said that when my eyes float water that I cannot see him the same. I would not cry otherwise. I do not like what I see anyway. It all makes my voice weird. But the guy from 7-Eleven always lets me have hot water and lemons.
I have a plan. See, I am not dumb. I am going to make all the money I can. I hide it you know? I check up on it a lot to make sure no one has found it. And I am on a list for a women’s shelter. And they will help me find a doctor and a job. It is a long list, but as soon as I realized I would have a baby I found a shelter. I should be there by the time my baby comes. And I have a resume too! It is a little old. I was a teaching aid at an elementary school. I love kids. I never had my own, but always wanted one. But, I never had one. Maybe that is why God put me there. Maybe having this baby is exactly what is supposed to happen.
————————————————————————————————————————————-
I came home and researched all night, looking up different places for poor women to find medical services and places for job training. I also bough prenatal vitamins. And I found that I could purchase a post office box nearby for very little every month. Most jobs require an address and it seems like at least a decent back up plan. I won’t buy it out right, but I’ll mention it to her. I can’t do much and I’m not a saint but research and generic vitamins are easy to provide.
It’s just that… Simone, ah! Simone is like a child stuck in an adult body, but that seems offensive in a way. Um… I am trying to be concise and truthful. Ok, you know that girl from freshman year of high school who was really sweet, and book smart, but was very naive about the world around her? Do you remember how that ignorance often led to her being bewildered by something as simple as an off colored joke? That is Simone. But Simone has been through a lot and it’s like she knows how bad the world can be but she buries it in the back of her mind and keeps the fourteen year old version of herself up as a wall. So suddenly she becomes the wisest, naive fourteen year old to walk the planet and it makes it utterly befuddling for the everyday person, like me. Every so often we’ll grab a bite at Starbucks. (Her favorite is the wild berry coffee cake.) The infuriating things is- chatting with her never really clears anything up. I do it anyway. I no longer see her as an unnamed goddess. Rather, she is Titania, but prefers to be Ms. Honey (that is a ‘Matilda’ reference). I made her promise to tell me when she was leaving, that way I wouldn’t worry.
I don’t understand how SImone functions the way she does. I can’t quite reconcile the “this is God’s plan” thing. But it seems to help her, so who am I to question it? I admire her. She is practical and she is strong. Her inner child (not the real one, the metaphorical one) is quick to present itself. I like it. It’s nice to recognize another Peter Pan.
That’s what she is! Sweet Ms. Honey meets childlike Peter.
Bill Murray on Gilda Radner:
“Gilda got married and went away. None of us saw her anymore. There was one good thing: Laraine had a party one night, a great party at her house. And I ended up being the disk jockey. She just had forty-fives, and not that many, so you really had to work the music end of it. There was a collection of like the funniest people in the world at this party. Somehow Sam Kinison sticks in my brain. The whole Monty Python group was there, most of us from the show, a lot of other funny people, and Gilda. Gilda showed up and she’d already had cancer and gone into remission and then had it again, I guess. Anyway she was slim. We hadn’t seen her in a long time. And she started doing, “I’ve got to go,” and she was just going to leave, and I was like, “Going to leave?” It felt like she was going to really leave forever.
So we started carrying her around, in a way that we could only do with her. We carried her up and down the stairs, around the house, repeatedly, for a long time, until I was exhausted. Then Danny did it for a while. Then I did it again. We just kept carrying her; we did it in teams. We kept carrying her around, but like upside down, every which way—over your shoulder and under your arm, carrying her like luggage. And that went on for more than an hour—maybe an hour and a half—just carrying her around and saying, “She’s leaving! This could be it! Now come on, this could be the last time we see her. Gilda’s leaving, and remember that she was very sick—hello?”
We worked all aspects of it, but it started with just, “She’s leaving, I don’t know if you’ve said good-bye to her.” And we said good-bye to the same people ten, twenty times, you know.
And because these people were really funny, every person we’d drag her up to would just do like five minutes on her, with Gilda upside down in this sort of tortured position, which she absolutely loved. She was laughing so hard we could have lost her right then and there.
It was just one of the best parties I’ve ever been to in my life. I’ll always remember it. It was the last time I saw her.”- from Live from New York: an Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live
<Words tumble and stumble, tripping from
a sacred incubator, a sanctuary all their own
Words existing only by decree of their patron saint
They fill the void, coloring the vacant air—>
The sunlight winked and scampered across the bedsheets. The blinds moved as if of their own volition, but the breeze did not go unnoticed. She stared at the wall, wishing for warmth but unable to move. Memories from the night before paralyzed her and she laid there staring at the spackled ceiling, noting the mountain ranges that melted into faces. She had a feeling they would soon become her newest companions.
She had told the story. Why had she done that? She could not comprehend what could have possibly come over her. But their curiosity over the details and the display of emotions had seemed so genuine. She kicked herself, how naive she is. They had been acquaintances for years but last night that wall came down. Nightfall always brings out the simultaneously revealing, yet destructive words and actions. The conversation had been innocuous but the longer they joked and reminisced, the more heartfelt the conversation became. And then it led to that one sentence.
“I don’t mean to pry, but…” And then THE question put forth for a response.
The story was slow and halting. She fumbled with words.
“Don’t edit yourself,” they said. “It’s okay, you can tell us,” they said.
Slowly, but surely the story unfolded. It was relief in the form of a flood, a deluge of words, strung together, pulling up the anchor that sat at the bottom of her soul, holding her in place as the rest of the world moved by. The final sigh came not with a forced smile but with a reaching for napkins, tissue of any sort. The silence was so hard to bear and then… that final sentence fell out of her mouth, crashing lamely on the table before her.
“The least he could have done is make it easier to clean up, right?”
The walls went up. Bile instantaneously lodged in her throat. Glances were passed between the people who had asked for her trust. Her ability to laugh had been her final defense and now she sat there, stripped down to the marrow of her being.
“It’s not his fault.” “He was obviously really sick.” “He needed help.”
Within a single moment they had glossed over her experience. His lies were minimized. His cheating, his suspicion- all dismissed. He wasn’t who he said he was! And yet… she, SHE, hadn’t done enough? Their words, like boney fingers pointed straight at her, prodded her into the shelter from which she had momentarily emerged. Her head began to pound, like a thousand demons doing the treble reel. The echoing dissonance rang in her ears. The light danced and flickered. She slowly rose from her stool, paid her tab with a bill she could no longer visualize. Her world receded into a one foot radius from the very inner most of her being. The music faltered and plunged into an amplified 12- chord progression. The crowd released its alcoholic grip and push her toward the door.
The walk was longer than anticipated; she wanted to run. She wanted to sprint, to move, to… cycle, yes, tandem!- her and her ghost.
Her thoughts wove in and out, capturing every imagined would-be moment. She sat in front and he sat behind, a forced follower. She imagined yelling over her shoulder with the wind racing through her hair, forming copper knots to eventually be relieved by handfuls of beauty product. There she was- speeding down hill, as fast as her legs could go, half wishing to lose control, handlebars twisting backwards, throwing her into newly laid concrete. But no. There she was-speeding down hill, fast as her legs could go, holding on as tightly as she could, hoping to keep a semblance of control. The comfort of this emotional tug of war indescribably disturbing. There she was- imagining speeding down the hill, screaming for all she was worth. Screaming obscenities. Screaming words meant to inflict pain. He was unmoved. The earth plateaued. The pavement stretched out before her, a black tongue pulling her home, that lonely personal hell. The tires slowly pulled away from the pavement, crackling, a sound effect mimicking the goosebumps forming on her neck.
Her mind tortured her as if he were back in the flesh. He laughed at her. He had assuaged her fears for a year and a half. If she had just listened to herself she wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be in this situation. She wouldn’t question her every move. She would be her old self.
If she had just listened to her gut…
… It had been another long night. One of these days I will take one of those damned sleeping pills and get at least a reasonable amount of sleep. But they scare the hell out of me. They scare me more than nightmares, more than drunken delusions in the middle of the night. They scare me more than all of it combined. So once again, I stare at this out of date, ugly ceiling, emotionally exhausted and mentally reeling from the night before. How did I let that story slip out?
And here I am. I’m freezing my butt off because yet again the bed covers cover everything except me. At night I run in my sleep, but during the day I barely function enough to get out of bed.
Maybe telling that story was for the best. Maybe they’ll mull it over and eventually have an inkling of understanding. Maybe it will help heal my wound.
But let’s be honest
<—Yet relief does not come,
For it cannot come, as words alone
Will not make heartache disappear
An equation of time and love and, above all,
forgiveness is a better nurse than any
impotent string of words and phrases.>
{UnWinona}: I debated whether or not to share this story. -
And then I debated whether or not to put it on Tumblr…but I decided it was important. Because in my own way, I can (unfortunately) point out exactly what is wrong with men when they don’t realize how hard it is to be a woman. How we do not have equal opportunities and freedoms in everyday life….
(I wrote this for a play many, many moons ago. Someday I’ll edit that thing. Currently, this is my favorite part.)
He improvised endlessly, like a jazz musician
Riffs cool and smooth as silk, entangled reality and fiction
Content veiled by a serpent tongue
His charm betrayed the truth
She gave in slipping, tripping into the silver waters, tide rising to meet her yearning
to believe
Moonlight fingers mistaken as revelation
Again and again, she was mesmerized, hypnotized by his flow
Letting his old song lap over her toes, ankles, thighs, like gentle waves they crest, collapse
Droplets cling to her belly and breasts as she takes another step into his assailing deception
Rivulets slowly slide and mingle with tears, falling like rhythmic raindrops causing concentric circles
She is wishing to sacrifice body and soul and drown in the soulful refrain
Breathe the melodic tumult until a pliant mind is all that remains
Barely a body left for the rocks to caress
Until she’s roused by the mid-morning sun and has to express, confess
That she has shrouded the past in the effort to forget
You flew so high and proud, bold as can be
but you missed the stars and land with me
You crashed in my bed, feathers on display
though admiring, I asked you to put them away
Tension released, your smile did betray
the hollow cavity of your everyday
That deafening silence roared in my ears
rattled my ribs and spoke of our years
Once like the veins on the back of my hand
now you’re like a stranger of another land
Using language neither can understand
with eyes shuttered behind what we planned
A golden future, side by side
friendship and love none could divide
But the present collides with my breaking heart
pushing me to bedside knees and from my lips depart-
“O, Expose me to your mercy and grace
Take my hope and the love I can’t erase
And take my tears so I can’t weep
Give to another this man I can’t keep
For this angelic aspect no longer conceals
A man who wishes my heart to heal.”
She wears freckles like dandelion dust
Paired with muddy feet and grass stained jeans
Crowing at the early sun and making scenes
Full of pirates, dragons and wanderlust
Moving with child’s faith, a living trust
In realms with gods and magic, kings and queens
Princes and step daughters who never clean
Believing in a world never unjust
The image fades like the wisp of a cloud
Weary, my fingers, they grapple and fight
Against the mem’ries of my child, lost
An accident of life, heavy head bowed
I weep for the loss of my youthful sprite
Wise age I’ve gained at immeasur’ble cost
He didn’t believe me. I could tell.
See, I had told him I loved him and he looked at me like I was crazy.
His last girlfriend had said that. She had sent him that love letter. The letter that said,
“Dear John,
We can’t do this any more. I’m so sorry. A part of me will love you forever. But I can’t wait anymore. I hope you will forgive me.
xxxxxxx”
His best friend back home told him that he had seen her with another guy. Other sources confirmed the intel.
She had been his biggest supporter. Her hair, that wavy, golden hair, was his daydream in an otherwise monochromatic, characterless landscape. His three o’clock was endless, unfrothing waves of sand; the nine o’clock was defiant, unforgiving mountains that refused to forfeit their prize. And then there was his unrelenting dream, the fantasy that was often delegated to suffocating under the sounds of incessant moral and political bickering whirring past, spinning his head, making his trigger muscles twitch. But when his imagination got to come out from its helmet protected hideout it looked a lot like an airport, sweeping Her into his arms, letting Her cry into his finally washed fatigues, holding Her with his parents waiting behind until his mom couldn’t stand not touching him, that physical contact telling her it was real. Finally real.
It was the dream he had to counter every nightmare, every night terror. It was the dream he held on to every time it became… too heavy, too much. It was what he lived for. He fought to be with Her.
The ground gave beneath him. She had stopped fighting; She had given up.
He would never. Or so he had thought. Now it all seemed foolish.
Love letters would never quite be the same. The end of a gun would be familiar in an all new way. Mission success was no longer first priority.
And here I am, telling him I loved him. Sitting cross legged, knee to knee, I whispered those little words. They came from the deepest, most truthful place I have, but I hadn’t meant to say them yet. I knew he wasn’t ready. I selfishly pushed us, or maybe pulled us, down a road where he had no footing.
He said nothing. His face turned into a mask of stone. It was a familiar reaction, one I had seen when he would finally lie back down in bed after throwing himself out from under the security of the covers after a nightmare. He turned away from me, just like when the lights are out and all he hears are voices of ghosts. Some of the ghosts I know, having been told in detail about the brothers, the jokes, the tales, the camaraderie. Others voices I knew I would never hear, they would never be brought to light again.
And now, just as those nights, I had no clue what to do. One touch out of place could cause him to jump, could create a wall in a fraction of a second. A word could go unheard.
I pulled out the original dog tags, his first ones. He had given them to Her and He had made no demands except for the return of those. I had not worn them. Until that moment, they had not held the same meaning for me as they did for him. They were a symbol to him; I am not a liar, a person to fake a belief in them. I pulled them out of my purse. At the jingle, he turned and watched as I gently pulled them down over my head.
“I love you. I will take even a small piece of you to keep close to my heart. Someday, maybe I can earn the rest.” I gave that half smile and walked home.
It has been three weeks. He hasn’t called me. But he hasn’t asked for their return either. It’s okay. I’m patient. I can wait.
[video]
I didn’t ask this time. My head would have been ripped off of my body. I made up a back story for why this woman was a total psycho.
My manager released me late for my break. I practically tore off my headset and ran off the sales floor. Screaming. No, not really, but in my head. You know that fantasy, it’s like Peter Pan when his shadow shoots around the room and does whatever it wants. So it’s that fantasy about punching everyone’s head as you run by and they deflate and you throw merchandise on the floor and do a war dance around it, face paint and all. Except it’s your shadow doing it in your head. So then you don’t end up in jail. Anyway, I marched back to the break room.
Lazy Coworker was sitting at the break table and you know, she always has to talk.
“What happened?” says she.
“What do you mean?” says I.
“I don’t know, you just look like you are about to kill someone.” says she.
And I cackle. Well, I do half-heartedly because I have spent all my allotted energy for the day on the first two hours of an eight hour shift.
I went to the food court to console my achy body with some KitKat’s and Coke. Or maybe Aloe Water. I love that stuff! Nope, Coke. It’s a Terrible day.
I slowly walked, head down, to the nearest empty seat. I’m savoring my sugars, ignoring the warm sunshine outside, trying to dissuade the depression that is worming its way in, burrowing through my skull, munching methodically on any vestiges of vitality I have left. A distinctive shadow pauses, hovering over my table. The body soon follows. It’s Pyscho.
“You are a bitch.”
I sit.
“Seriously. You are a heinous bitch.”
Vocabulary? Surprising. I sit.
“Are you deaf?”
“Nope.”
“Then answer me.”
“I’m sorry. I think you’re confused. You didn’t ask me a question.”
“See! You stupid little bitch!”
Great. Now people are looking at us.
“See if you had asked me, ‘Are you a bitch?’ I would have said, ‘No, as a matter of fact I’m not, but thank you for asking instead of judging.’”
“I’m calling your manager! I’m going to call corporate and have you fired.”
I snapped.
“For what? For being accosted when I’m not on the clock and still maintaining a professional demeanor? Let me know how that goes. ” Pause. “Oh you mean in the store?” I have to laugh out loud at this point. It’s not a real laugh but it’s that or cry at this point and I’m not going to cry. “You want me fired because you threw a bra at me and screamed at me for having cold hands and ‘pinching’ you and me responding with telling me manager to handle you instead?”
Ok, what happened was all of that, but my manager was dealing with another idiotic customer, we were swarmed by the Stupid today, so she didn’t get there fast enough. So the woman continued to berate me in front of other customers so I finally broke down and said something to the effect of-
“Look, I’m sorry you have perfectly huge, perky boobs that don’t fit in our bras! I’m sorry that my hands are cold. If I could get rid of my hypothryoidism and not have to go in to have my thyroid SURGICALLY REMOVED… TOMORROW I would. But for the rest of my life I get to pay an arm and a leg for the medical bills and prescription hormones to keep me alive. So, I can’t really help the frozen fingers! And to top it off I’m terrified of hospitals because my parents died in an ER when I was 9 and I still have nightmares! So, please, PLEASE accept this oh so sincere apology.”
Dead silence.
She had finally shut her damn mouth.
Then I realize, I’m a lying bitch. So I-
“Nah, I’m just kidding. I mean, I do have hypothyroidism but not that bad. I just needed you to be quiet for one moment. So while I’ve a second to interject I think you are probably a 32DD but we don’t carry that in stores so you should try this 34D.”
A woman behind me cracked and huge guffaws pour out of her mouth. I tried to hide my smile but I knew, sure as shit, that wasn’t working.
Psycho picked up a hanger and threw it at me.
Sounds unreal right? I wish. And of course, that is when my manager rounded the corner. The Bezerker, I’m changing her name, I like this one better, started babble-screaming and was hardly comprehensible. But my manager, shot me a “I’m going to kill you dead. DEAD!” look. Laughing Woman steps up and says that I did nothing wrong. My manager released me for my fifteen minute break with, “Make it longer.” I did the “Bette Midler” eye flash in the direction of L.W. and walked to the back, my shadow doing its best to relieve my aggression.
Back to the near present-
“Go ahead. Try. And if it succeeds, just know, it doesn’t matter. I’ll live without that job. I’ll find another one. But if it doesn’t succeed, know that it was you that was the ‘Bitch’ as you so aptly put it. So please, continue to yell at me and then call corporate.”
Bezerker flipped me off, which is better than choking me like I thought she was about to do, and stomped off.
My fifteen was up but I was not about to go back yet. Though calm on the outside, on the inside I was furious and ready to brawl with Bezerker. I hate being embarrassed. It is hard to do and a rare occurrence so I was immeasurably angry. To calm myself down, I made up my own story for that woman. Yes, I told you I would. Sometimes it takes time to get there, chill.
Yesterday, her boyfriend of five years broke up with her. He is a freelance casting director. For models. He was her constant critic. She didn’t initially fit into his world. She was petite, brunette with wavy, uncontrollable hair. Everyday he stopped at Starbucks, Iced Soy Latte with Two Shots of Espresso. And everyday, he told her she was cute and that she should do this or that. Dye her hair. Brazilian blowout. Tan. Run. Pilates. Nose job. She could be beautiful.
She had. All of it. Well except the nose job because three years ago he offered to pay for her boob job. After that she was too scared to do a nose job, not that she ever told him. He would have laughed at her. Now, she was near perfect. Except for the frown lines and yellowing, nicotine fingertips. Now, she was Hollywood. She wasn’t little Arkansas anymore. She had a degree in graphic design but barely scratched by with that. She got too caught up in parties and fashion shows and gallery openings to pay attention to her grades. He had told her it didn’t matter, he wasn’t going to let her work anyway. It had seemed romantic at the time. But now she had nothing to show for her first three years of hard work.
Now, she had no savings of her own, except for the modeling gigs she had gotten here and there. Now, she had to beg him to come back or bait him. Pretty lingerie, a better body, a…. she doesn’t even know.
She had known about them. Them. The other girls. But she thought if she worked hard enough, became perfect enough, better than perfect she could keep him. And she did. He always came back. If she could cook, be his assistant, anticipate everything and anything he wanted, say exactly the right thing, become a Type A personality, then she could manage to keep him forever. This man. A man better than she had ever imagined.
And now, she wasn’t sure who she was or where she was going. She hated LA. She hated Arkansas. Colorado? No. Too cold. Las Vegas? No. No, no. Somewhere warm, just not there. Texas, or maybe Florida. Hawaii. Yeah. Hawaii. Less, blonde, ok, maybe just as tan. Actually learn to surf. Stop running. Hate, hate running. Hate pilates. Surfing and biking. Hawaii.
Hawaii was the only soft, easing voice in her head. Everything was fear, panic. She was being left behind. She wasn’t good enough. No! She was! She had proved herself, to everyone. She deserved only the best! She was 24 and on top of the world two days ago and now… she didn’t have a real friend to turn to. She had to move, she had to find her own work. She had to make a whole life from the bottom of the dog pile.
I cooled down. I could relate to that woman. Not all of it, not nearly. But I understood her. That is probably not her story. But it’s what I will hold on to. I can’t judge that woman. Not if I believe she went through that. Or anything similar for that matter.
I went back to work, exhausted and unsure if I still had a job. My manager said nothing. LW must have stood up for me. I guess I’ll have to wait and see if corporate calls.