It's time now

Neediness

    I could hear him breathing as I lay there clutching my soft brown teddy. I had a choice; I could forego my neediness and let my beloved teddy fall to the floor in efforts to proclaim independence: I am not the twenty six year old who needs a stuffed animal to sleep with, I am quite well on my own, thank you very much: or I could cradle my desire to be held while sleeping and simply let teddy fulfill that for me. Because the sleeping man next to me couldn’t do this...it wasn’t in his nature to cuddle, even after lovemaking. My friends said he had Mommy issues. I blamed his ex. 

  In the mornings he would wake and jump out of bed immediately. It startled me every time, I never understood his urgency to flee from our sleeping sanctuary so quickly—like his whole body was on fire and the hardwood floor was a soothing pool of water to dive into. I longed for him to kiss my neck just once before he raced for the door. If he did give me a peck, it was my cheek and it was only a signal of his departure; a polite gesture to excuse his abruptness. He never had time for coffee or tea or pillow talk. He had things to do and soon enough he would become so busy that he would forget about me entirely. I projected this fear onto him. I think that’s why he kept his distance. He knew I wanted far more than he was willing to give. 

  So as I lay there listening to him breathe I had a choice. I could cuddle up to him for a few moments before he would stir and roll away from me...but it would be a few cherished moments that would help me sleep better...or I could seep my face into my darling teddy, let go of my insecurities and confidently hold his little fluffy head and pretend that I had someone real who loved me. I would wish for this while lying there, so close to someone who possessed only lukewarm feelings for me. I would wish for kisses and cuddles and dream of a life where someone wanted to hold me close to them always.

small black- sophie

forever meant nothing when we had nothing...

Royksopp- something in my heart

Ben Whishaw

"Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness." -White Oleander

the bookie joint

  Eric stumbles over a pile of books as he makes his way to the back to do a restock. Shit. His shift is just beginning and he’s already dreading the massive amounts of  reading material that will be brought in to sell, usually by seniors cleaning out their basements and libraries. He picks up a box on the floor and and starts arranging them by category. Science Fiction. Biography. New Age. Poetry. He’s been working at the Bookie Joint for seven years now. He was planning on quitting after he finished his masters, but the owner promoted him to manager and his schedule is easy enough. As he cleans off the dust on the ancient  pieces of random literature, merely books that would inevitably sit on the shelves for years while hipsters would browse through the philosophy section trying to look cool, he thinks of Angie. She never picked up anything to try to look cool. She picked it up because she was doing research for her life. 

  He wonders what could have happened between them if he had only thanked her for the cd. They could even be married by now, maybe with a kid. He pictures her delicate frame pregnant, the two of them reading together in bed, cuddling in the morning and thinking to himself this is love. He would bury his face in her silky chestnut hair and it would smell like a lavender field he used to pass on the way to his aunt’s house in Delaware. They would talk about how lucky they were, how they could have missed each other but no, she came into that bookstore and he professed his adoration and now look at how happy they were. IF. 

  That day she came in Eric was a mess. His landlord had decided to skyrocket his rent that month, so he was pouring over Craigslist ads for another studio in his area, for about the same price he had been paying for the past five years- to no avail. He barely looked up from his laptop when she walked through the door. He heard her clear her throat. “Do you have any Ginsberg?” He looked up at her, the platinum blonde hair, eyes like a sparking ocean. Her voice was raspy, sexy, confident. He took her to the back and they searched for good ol’ Ginsberg, the way people should search for scintillating literature: together. They talked for hours that day, about music, philosophies, life, family. Before she left she told him she would make him a mix cd and bring it by. And she did, a week later, after he had gotten the news of impregnating a girl on a one-night stand. How could he reach out to her now? His life was ruined. 

  So here he is, almost three years later, with a two year old and a wife he never wanted to have. Sure, Lucy’s a good mother. She cooks on occasion and sometimes they have sex. But he feels divorce is looming on the horizon. They got married for the kid, for Adam. Eric continues to sift through the pile of books in front of him. And even now, whenever he comes across anything written by Allen Ginsberg, he sets it aside for Angie. She could stop by one day, one grey afternoon, and they could run away together and be like those lucky people. Maybe one day...