She set the timer for six hours, trusting that technology would rescue her from laziness the next morning.
Her entire life, she lived, expecting tomorrow to be better.
Today, as her head filled with hope and optimism, she had decided to ask the universe for a dual-citizenship: one homeland being her past, the other being her future.
If she jettisoned her past without appreciating the lessons, she knew she would never be happy.
A friend of hers had confessed that he woke up one morning to hear a bell in his head, one that revealed that he could succeed after twenty years of failure.
“Just like that?” she asked him.
He nodded. The way he nodded conveyed the truth of his acknowledgment.
For days, the idea of an awakening had plagued her. She silently begged the universe for such a revelation.
As she sat in traffic, waiting for the interminable light to change, she realized that her life was stuck in traffic. Though she didn’t hear a bell, the simplicity of the movement she needed became clear to her.
She came home and moved through the quotidian chores that fill people’s lives. The rituals needed to complete her evening passed without notice. She was on autopilot. For years.
Until she brushed her teeth. As she looked in the mirror, it hit her. She was the author of her own destiny.
Tomorrowland was hers.
She couldn’t wait to surprise the world with her revelation.
He heard her laugh from a couple of aisles over. He was about to place his six simple items on the belt by the cashier. He pushed his cart to the side when she laughed again and abandoned it. Whoever owned that laugh was someone he had to see. The hair on the back of his neck felt like an unseen hand had artfully brushed against it.
He kept looking for the person that laugh belonged to but couldn’t seem to pinpoint it. Then, he glimpsed her standing next to the spices and glancing up at the cinnamon placed unnecessarily and rudely high on the shelf, with one earbud in. It had to be her; the only other women in the vicinity were already collecting their pensions.
She was nodding to nobody as a smile cracked across her face under her mask.
Then another laugh.
Though he would not usually approach anyone, he felt his feet glide toward her. Though he had no expectations as to what she might look like, he felt an unfamiliar sense of familiarity when he looked at her. Just as he was about to speak, she turned halfway toward him, her eyes sparkling, the fading laugh leaving her eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but felt his throat clamp. He just nodded in silence.
She pulled her mask down to reveal a smile. “Well, hello there, stranger.” The ‘hello’ he warmly and hesitantly uttered crept its way across his lips as they moved, creasing the corners of his eyes.
“Could you help me get the cinnamon? I’m trying to make the family cookie recipe for the Christmas celebration. I was warned not to get the cheap stuff,” she said, rambling to herself. He watched her face move with the words as his feet shot roots into the ground beneath him to keep his heart from soaring out of his chest.
He kept staring until she looked from side to side behind him and then back in his face. “umm…Frankie? Can you get the cinnamon, please? I still have to bake tonight.” He kept staring. There she was. His heart was beating rapidly; there was sweat on his brow. The clerk announced BBQ and 4th of July deals over the loudspeaker. He blinked and inhaled hard, and then she was gone again.
Between heartbeats, time dilated. Frankie watched his arm reach up and pick out a lovely brand of cinnamon. When he handed it to her, her nimble fingers brushed his. The jolt awakened him. She smiled and asked, “Are you okay?” He nodded. “Wait,” he said, his voice almost disembodied. “Do I know you? I feel like I do.” She laughed at him as if he’d asked the most ridiculous and amusing question possible. “Not really, no. But I think we’re going to know each other very well, depending on whether you can answer one simple question.”
Frankie nodded and swallowed as Amelia grinned mischievously and pulled out her earbuds. This was a big test. He didn’t even know it yet. There was only one acceptable answer, but a close second would allow him to have an opportunity to prove himself further. “Which Star Trek captain is the best?” she asked as she slipped the cinnamon into a place of prestige in her shopping cart. “Thank you, by the way.”
Frankie didn’t even pause to answer: “Picard. He’s brilliant, ethical, and emotional, perfectly blended. But you know that. If I can make you laugh before you turn and walk away, will you let me talk to you again? Anywhere or anywhen you want.”
Amelia wrinkled her nose, made a noise like a buzzer, and made a thumbs-down signal. She then laughed again. Frankie’s spine shivered again. “That is not correct, so I’m not sure about any sort of prize here.” The room seemed to pulse and fade in and out of Frankie’s vision as the Christmas music faded to summer-time special promotions again. He stood there, alone, in the spice aisle in his Birkenstocks. “Oh God, not again,” he thought to himself and choked back the tears creeping dangerously close to slipping from his eyes in the middle of the spices.
He was lost somewhere in time again, the memories of lost love flooding him. He picked out a container of cinnamon and held it in his hand. Even though people passed him, no one noted the single tear that slid along his cheek and down to his hand holding the bottle. “Amelia,” he whispered.
Cade sat immobile at the computer. On the floor next to him was Junebug, his temperamental cocker spaniel, lazily looking up at him. For a couple of minutes, he stared at the picture he found of her, the woman he once loved. He wasn’t sure if it was serendipity or cursed look to see her face looking back at him. He’d inadvertently scrolled across the internet, looking for an inspiration for a story. He held his breath for quite a while, looking until he realized he wasn’t inhaling and that his stomach had tightened into a ball. A story indeed unfolded in his head, but it was one culled from his own hidden biography. The pages of that book of memory were salt-filled from desiccated tears.
Her hair was different, unkempt, and carefree. He hadn’t seen her for three years, seven months, and ten days, not that he was counting the intervening eternity since they posed for a picture. Before he left her that day, she asked for a picture. Cade excitedly agreed. They stood in front of the house, leaning against the swing, as Cade fumbled with the phone. Both of them were smiling broadly in that photo, their faces flushed with emotion and happiness. If someone had said, “Hold her tight, this is the last time you’ll ever see her again,” he would have either laughed or burst into tears. He might have also never left her, no matter what the cost.
Soon after, for reasons that were both explained and inscrutable, she jettisoned him from her life. The hole was a living void, one which he carried with him into unexpected places. It felt like an unseen and irritating tag on his jeans; he often thought little of it despite feeling the void just below his attention. Her absence brought such pain that he had to will himself to turn his mind elsewhere. So many things in her brought out the best of him, even as it devolved him into slivers of an individual. Knowing her taught him how addicts could chase the first high. To Cade, he compared it to eating a handful of the most delicious walnuts ever grown, only to find each one thereafter to be bitter and nutless. He would still chew a bathtub full of them, in hopes of finding that nugget of timelessness again.
Even after, as much as he realized how brazenly he’d acted, he wished her well. It’s hard to hate someone who opened a new portal inside of you, whether the portal was love or of an infatuation that defied parameters. The agony of knowing that someone chose another path or person instead of you is one of the most inconsolable bittersweet emotions in life. Because love is intensely personal, it’s impossible to express to another that you are truly at their mercy and capable of redefining whatever definition of love holds true. They’ve rejected the most authentic love they could have ever known; because of rejection, they’d never know. They’d careen off, in search of a more suitable you.
Cade powered off his computer and sat in darkness for a minute. His heart slowed and her presence slowly evaporated from him. He got up to make a cup of coffee. Life would go on. The sparkler of her remembered presence would continue, too. It was a part of him now and forever, wherever she might be. He thought of “The Prince of Tides,” and smiled. He didn’t cross a bridge as he whispered it; his feet carried him across the house to a cup of coffee. He imagined he could hear the river somewhere nearby, though, and the marshy smell of the water. He imagined the luxury of living two disparate lives. Junebug nuzzled his leg as he walked.
Out there in the world, she lived her life. And Cade was happy for her. .
(Note: recently, I was asked to write some sample advice columns. Here’s an off-the-cuff one for you to read…)
Question: “My girlfriend doesn’t reply to my texts for a long time but answers other people constantly. What should I do?”
Well, because it’s important, what kind of shoes do you wear? I hope you say Nike or Adidas because they’ll pay me the most for mentioning them. #payme
I hope running shoes is your answer. You need to buy a nice, comfortable pair. Put them on – and then run. Away.
I’m not going to ask you what you mean by “a long time.” I am assuming you’re not obsessive or crazy. I could be wrong. If you’re writing me for advice, you might need to reconsider your life choices.
Another assumption is that if you’re writing me for advice, that it’s a deal-breaker sort of problem if it isn’t addressed to your satisfaction.
Her failing to answer you (her person) isn’t a question of boundaries. It is of course her right to answer when and if she chooses. But if she chooses to ignore yours while texting other randos, she also is free to face the consequences of failing to appreciate that’s she in a relationship that requires open communication and time.
I am assuming you’ve already discussed expectations, reciprocity, and feelings about this? If you haven’t, you’re part of the problem. No matter how scary it is, you must be able to reveal what’s on your mind and in your heart – even if it might initially sound needy or negative. If you can’t risk doing so, you need to practice. You’ll never be happy with anyone if you can’t. Ms. No-Reply can find someone who will tolerate being treated as lesser.
There are a lot of fancy words for that kind of behavior. She’s clearly showing you she doesn’t prioritize you with her time. We all have a limited amount of time in our day. If she’s choosing to ignore the closest person in her life, there’s a reason. No matter how she explains it away, it’s just that she’s not that into you. This is especially true if she’s being funny, witty, or exchanging multiple long messages with other people. She’s investing her time and energy elsewhere. You should do the same.
Being honest with her again about your feelings isn’t going to help. She’s going to be defensive and gaslight you about your totally understandable reaction. And probably make a snarky TikTok to poke fun at you. If she does, laugh if you can. Someone else will appreciate your earnest desire to share your life and thoughts with them.
Adults answer their lovers with at least the same frequency and enthusiasm as they do others. The Enthusiasm Rule dictates that they should.
The no-texting is a clear starting gun.
You’ve already got your running shoes on. Use them.*
*And if you don’t have running shoes, remember: Nike or Adidas, please.#paymetwice .
He left one day, never to return. I kissed him goodbye, not knowing it would be the last time I would do so. Each morning since, I walk outside to observe the beauty of the morning in the place we once shared. The sunrise fills my eyes but falls short of my heart.
I feel him around me. His presence follows me through the house, his shadow beckons me in the half-asleep moments of the pre-dawn early morning.
I whisper his name. Sometimes, I hear him whisper mine.
I feel his embrace, even now, so many months later.
Absence. Presence. Through love’s filter, they are indistinguishable.
The apricot sun brings him to me.
Love remembered is love born anew, I tell myself.
But I crave the hands that once delivered me into the abyss.
For now, I will stand here and love the apricot sun.
(This is another inspired story, from a stolen picture…)
She’d been gone five long years. Jane. To think her name caused John’s head to pulse with remembrance.
John stood at the low curb, looking up at the tree. Jane’s father Jack planted it when her parents owned the suburban house. Jane shyly let John kiss her for the first time under that tree, one Thanksgiving afternoon. There were many more such moments, each melting into the next.
A month before their wedding, her parents told them, “The house is yours. Fill it with love and children, if that’s what you want.”
They moved in three days after their simple wedding. Every fall, John jokingly complained about the mountain of leaves that the vibrant tree produced. Jane laughed like she always did, knowing that he’d faithfully rake and mulch the crimson leaves. Eventually. Often, they were still piled dutifully, awaiting John’s attention, by the time Thanksgiving graced the calendar.
After the diagnosis, John went outside each night to stand under the tree and imagine how it must feel to spend one’s entire life without fearing the next day. Or whatever day would bring finality to the love of his life.
Five years later, he stood with his hand on his daughter Jenny’s shoulder, pointing up at the polychromatic leaves. “Your mother loved this tree, Jenny, like she loved you. When the leaves fall, it’s your mom telling you that everything has its season.”
Jenny looked at the tree, then at John. “Oh Daddy, you’re so cute!”
Jane. Beloved.
May every crimson leave bear your name. . . Happy Thanksgiving, especially to those with a heavy heart or a burdened mind. . Love, X
I stole a picture from someone because it struck a chord in me. In a minute, I wrote down what flowed out of me:
She sat on the pole fence, swinging her legs, laughing.
I watched her, trying to resist taking a picture. I sensed that the moment was fragmentary and fleeting. Her green dress amplified the natural color of the overcast beauty around her. Because my eyes were attuned to notice, I looked at her with wonder.
She said, “Hey, watch!” And she hopped from the fence and ran to jump into the air, vainly attempting to reach the highlighted branches just beyond her reach.
She twirled around to see if I’d been watching.
I had, of course. How could I not?
She twirled around twice more, her hair billowing out and away from her shoulders.
“Come here and dance with me under this magical tree,” she yelled.
The day was perfect. That moment. That place. And her.
Hey guys, I probably changed a couple of people’s lives tonight. Really.
Recently, someone surprised me with a kindness. It gave me a little breathing room. I can’t think about it without feeling like I owe the universe a big hug.
Because I had already worn myself out exercising, I left the apartment to visit my local inconvenience store. Today was a light day: I had 20,000 steps without taking a “walk.” I don’t get bored, but I do miss the interaction with people sometimes. This evening was one of those times. As I stood near the case of odd corndogs and snacks, a pretty young lady stood at the counter, vainly attempting to get her visa card to work. The clerk was showing her a video of his puppy. It was apparent that both of them were doing the dance of interest, even as the young lady became frustrated. “Try the card again,” the clerk told her. She tried twice more to prepay $10 in gas.
I interrupted them both and said, “Ma’am, I’ll pay for your $10 in gas. In fact, let’s make it $20 if your car holds it. We’ve all been there.” She looked at me in wide-eyed surprise. I pointed at the clerk, “He would want me to.” The clerk smiled a huge smile, realizing that I had shifted my surprise act of generosity to him.
The young lady almost started crying. “That is so nice of you!” I thought she was going to hug me. “Yes, my car will hold $20 of gas. It’s basically on empty.”
I thought of all the times I was poor or needed help. Her wide-eyed features and noticeable relief and gratitude rendered me a bit floorless.
“Then have a great night and pay it forward. It’s really okay.” I smiled at her. She smiled at me, then smiled at the clerk, who watched it unfold. It’s hard to describe how beautiful that smile was, as she reacted to a total stranger giving her such a gesture.
When she exited, the clerk shook my hand and introduced himself. “Ryan,” he said. “That was really cool of you.”
I introduced myself too and then showed him my ID. People often don’t believe my name is X. “Whoa, that’s cool!”
I told him, “You ought to ask her out. She already thinks I paid for her gas because you’re a nice guy. You’re halfway there.”
He smiled, “Yeah, I’ve been wanting to ask her out for quite a while.”
Y’all know me, so you know I couldn’t leave it there.
“Then ask her out,” I said. “It’s obvious she likes you. I’m 54. I’m telling you that you should take 100% of the shots you want when you’re young. The worst that could happen is she’ll say no. The best is that you will have a great story to tell about how you got the nerve to ask her out. Me.”
The clerk said, “That’s some wisdom right there. Thank you.”
We both laughed as I grabbed my bag of Cheetos Puffs and left.
As I started the car, I decided to forget the rules of life and social etiquette. I rolled down my window (yes, my car has actual rollers) and drove over near the white car at the gas pumps. The young lady looked over at me.
“I know this is awkward, but the clerk likes you and has wanted to ask you out for quite a while. He’s a great guy. Have a great night, young lady.”
She smiled so big that I thought her face might shatter. “Thanks! And thank you.”
I drove away, glad that I’d decided to leave the apartment for a dumb snack. And ignored the ridiculous social expectations of perhaps going too far. I can thank Lexapro for making me more “me.” Where life and love are concerned, there is no step too far.
I was glad I’d been able to help someone randomly.
I was glad that someone had helped me to be able to.
And that it was likely that the clerk and the young lady with the defunct visa card might be able to overcome the ridiculous shyness and distance that so often separates people who are interested in one another. There is no reason for such attraction not to find purchase in people’s lives.
Somehow, I think they will.
And I love that I might be at the nexus of their story, however it unfolds.
More than that, though, I would love for them both to take a risk and find out how their mutual interest might blossom.
What a life.
Thank you, universe, and thank you, kind souls who made it possible.
I’ll say a little prayer for love, for kindness, and for humanity.
And for Ryan and the nameless pretty young lady who needed a little bit of help tonight.
His name was Mister Margaret. Everyone called him that. He was around sixty, the indeterminate kind of sixty, and in fantastic shape. He walked around town often. How he stayed in shape was a mystery. He never wore a hat and also was never quite clean-shaven. You could tell he was observant. No matter where his head was turned, you could see that his eyes followed everything.
Away from prying ears, people speculated how the name came to be his. Not me. I had been initially curious, that’s true. Unlike my fellow townspeople, though, I just asked Mister Margaret one early morning. I’ve learned that life is too short to avoid a momentary bit of possible awkwardness. He was outside the diner, sitting on the uncomfortable curb along the street, holding a coffee cup. I learned that if it wasn’t raining, he always took his third cup of coffee outside to drink it. “Ain’t no reason to be indoors all the time. I want to see the world, and I imagine the world might want to see me a bit, too,” he’d told Joshua, the diner owner.
I sat down a few feet away from Mister Margaret, awkwardly folding my legs against the pavement. I wasn’t as fit as him, and my knees and hips reminded me to do everything with caution.
“Can I ask you a question, Mister Margaret? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. How’d you get the name?” I smiled, hoping he would forgive my directness.
He laughed. “Yeah, I’ll tell you. I know people want to know. I hear whispers. And because it is a terrible story, one you probably can’t guess, you can’t regret knowing. That’s what knowledge does to us. It opens us and we can’t go back once we know something.” He paused. I nodded. As if we’d shaken hands and swore an oath, Mister Margaret started talking.
…
“My wife died about a year earlier. I had a great business along Main Street in my hometown. I killed a young woman one Saturday afternoon.” He paused, knowing that he’d thrown me a curveball. “She ran across the street without looking. I hit her, going forty-five miles an hour. The impact broke her all over and flung her body further than you’d believe. After the County Sheriff ruled it to be an accident, a lot of the girl’s family got anger and grief mixed up in their hearts. A month after I killed her, I walked out of the grocery store to find myself facing her father, a man everyone called Mister. He had a knife and told me he was going to kill me. I didn’t doubt him. He lunged at me in front of several witnesses. I sidestepped him and hit him in the side of the head as hard as I could. Two things, though. I didn’t really sidestep him as much I thought. He stuck that knife five inches up into my belly. I struck him so hard he fell. His head hit one of those concrete carstops in front of the store. He never woke up. His daughter’s name? Margaret. After three weeks in the hospital, I got discharged, and I sold everything I had and moved here for a fresh start. It seemed right to take both of their names as a reminder. You can look it up, if you’re inclined to do so. And that’s the story of my name.”
He looked at me intensely, waiting to see what I might say.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t run over someone named Turd,” I said. I was a bit horrified I’d said the words out loud. I was trying to be funny.
To my surprise, Mister Margaret began to laugh like I’d told the best joke in the world. He threw his head back, and he began to shake and cough with laughter. Tears streamed down his face, and I grinned as I watched.
“I haven’t laughed like that in ten years!” he said. “I guess that means we’re going to be friends. By the way, friend, what is your name? It better not be Asshat.”
We both laughed. We finished our respective cups of coffee, watching the town around us.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 