Beautiful Disguise

In the silence that followed Megan wondered again about the cat who Andy had released all of those years ago.  She wondered if he even remembered it anymore, or if he had moved on from those memories, too.  But she didn't ask. She only stood there, waiting, until he said, “So, anyway, I just wanted to stop by, because I’ll be heading off to Chicago tomorrow.”

“Does that you mean you’ve made a decision about your job?”

“I talked to my boss when he was here.  We've everything worked out.”

“That’s great,” Meg said, and smiled at him.  “Well, good luck.”

“Thanks.  And, Megan—it was good to see you again.”

“You, too.”

After a brief hesitation Andy turned toward the door.  Before he reached it, he said to the wall, “So I guess you’re going to hate me forever, then."

“Oh, no.  Not at all.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’ll let me know if you ever need something?”

“Definitely.”

“Good,” he answered.  And without another word he left the hotel room.

Sanctuary

oh yes     I know how to sleep

I close my eyes     the colors of make believe

and dream and dream and dream

just dream and dream and dream…

            

Lost

Forgive me this arrogance 

this undeniable conceit

Too foolish to understand

what surrender would mean

Beginnings

At Walgreen's Andy saw her standing in front of the magazine stand, reading a Tiger Beat.  “I’ll catch up to you in a couple of minutes,” he told his friends.  He then casually strolled over to where she was and reached for a Sports Illustrated.

When the girl noticed him she flushed, like she had been caught doing something naughty.  From how she quickly stuffed the Tiger Beat back into the magazine stand Andy had a feeling she was going to bolt again, so he smiled and said to her, “Hi!  My name is Andy.  I think I live across the street from you.  You’re the Schuler’s niece, aren’t you?”

The girl nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Megan.”

Andy had expected a tiny, squeaky voice to go with her whole mouse-like demeanor.  That would have made more sense, anyway, than the quiet but firm voice she answered him with.  Fascinated, Andy waited for her to continue.  When she didn't, he asked her, “What grade are you in?”

“Seventh.  I mean, I will be in August.”

“Hey, that’s cool.  I’ll be in eighth.  I can show you around.”

“Great,” Megan said, although Andy wasn’t quite sure she meant it.  She took a step back.  “Well, I have to get going,” she told him.  “It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you, too.  Maybe I’ll come over sometime this week.  I can take you on a tour.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind.  I’ll just stop over, okay?”

“Okay,” Megan answered, and looking a bit hunted, she disappeared around the corner.

Waiting

Whisper it to me while no one is listening

tell me I am a fool

tell me I am not

tell me something that makes sense

and then prove it

Disappointed

I was one fear closer to here

lost in a night too dark for sleeping

was it me on the ledge        or was it you

whispering

                                                                                                                            

                        do not give up too soon

do not give up

too soon               

                                                                                                                                                               when I am breaking           

I am a fool

where do I stand

I am a piece of stone mixed in

with all this sand

                                                                

yet full of proof

of what died         with you

                               

                why did you bring me here to my cyclone second

when rage engulfs this bridge from earth to heaven                    

cinder through and through                                                                                                                                                                                         

you ask too much                               you do

                                                                                                       

for one whisper like the hint of water splashed on embers

for one storybook of dreams with its message tethered 

to the fading metal moon

the sun  it can  be cruel

now that I gave too much                 too soon                                                                                               

                                                                               

                                                Is this your plan  

                

is this your one    

your great             

your smoky last demand   

or

my intention

my blue-flame doom

  

because

burned across my heart your forgotten message

the language lost in time with the words rewritten

resuscitate the girl she is out of breathing

collapsed under the hope she could not believe in

the soot was in her eyes she could only cry

was this my one great truth

did I give up

                too soon?

                

Hidden

“So how old are you, anyway?” Michael asked me.  “You look like you’re about 12.”

Stiffening, I replied, “I’ll be 22 this year.”  At his frankly disbelieving look, I dug into my handbag and pulled out my driver’s license.  “Here,” I said, shoving it at him.  Michael took it from me.  “Angela Wolff,” he read out loud, “date of birth November 25^th, 1972.”  He handed it back to me.  “Wolff, eh?  That’s appropriate.”

I had to stop myself from demanding an explanation for this bizarre and probably insulting observation.  I was at Jamie’s family home, after all, trying to make nice with his relatives.  I therefore limited myself to asking Michael, “How old are you?”

“I’m 33.  You do know that Jamie is 32, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think you should be playing with kids your own age?”

“How old is your girlfriend?” I returned.  “She doesn’t look 33.  In fact, I wouldn’t think she’s all that much older than I am.”

His eyes narrowing, Michael answered, “She’s 26.”

“Hmmn,” I said, but that was the end of it because Jen bounced over to us.  “Who’s 26?” she demanded.  “Me?  That’s right!  Was he telling everyone's age?  Because Jamie is 32—you already know that, of course—Matt is 31, and Michael is 33.  All three of them, right in a row!”

“That’s interesting,” I told her.  Michael let out a short laugh.  “I’m sure you’re fascinated,” he said.  “But, don’t worry, you got the one with the most money.  Well done.”

“Yes, that was rather clever of me, wasn’t it?” I retorted.  “In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to Tiffany’s and drape myself in diamonds.”  I then marched into the living room, telling myself that Michael hating me wasn’t a total loss.  At least I would have one less family member to buy a Christmas present for.