8:36 am.

The sun has come out in full force, and yet it's still cool. It rained yesterday, the sky released a torrent lasting for hours. The ground was muddy and I slipped as I ventured outside. But not today. Today the cardinals and blue jays and robins and starlings are out and about. The trees are a shade of green I forgot existed, and the sky's without a single cloud. None of it feels quite... real. Something is off, and even as the plane takes off and cuts through the sound of the downstairs neighbor's generator I know that it's me. This postcard can't possibly exist. I feel like that starling. Out of place - an invasive species that you don't always catch sight of but know is there by its calls.

I wonder what type of calls others hear from me, then? Are they soft? Are they sad? Or are they the calls of a life desperate and driven by biology to survive, even if it means risking the local ecology?

My toes are slowly freezing on the wood of the patio, the one I spilled dirt all over three days ago when I planted the seeds I've been hoarding since Fall. I can feel the grit beneath my feet. I usually would mind, but right now all I can think of is that I can't believe I accidentally watered the seeds with the bleach water meant for cleaning. I'll watch them for the next two weeks anyway, hoping to see them pushing up out of the soil but probably knowing deep down they never will. Just another thing I've managed to ruin, right?

My toes are stiffening up now. This tells me that the idyllic scene beyond the patio screen is, in fact, real. At least that's something, right?

The birds became active around 5 this morning, and the sun began to rise at 6. But I? I haven't yet been to bed.

When I go inside, my room will ask me, "How did you sleep?", knowing all along that I haven't, that I sat and lie awake all night and relived every memory I could, hating every second but trying to identify which ones feel like my own. The issue with opening that can of worms, though, is that once you start, there is no stopping them until they run their course.

I wish I had the time to grieve all the memories I don't have. My itemized list tells me that's most of my childhood. But for now, I need to go inside. I'm awake, so I might as well make use of it while this paralysis lasts.

8:46 am. It took me exactly ten minutes to write this out. I'm not going to worry about how the number of memories I have from the first decade of my life amounts to less than that. But picking up 10 things in the kitchen? That, I can do. And I won't forget to greet the birds & wish them good day, especially that starling. It's hardly its own fault that it ended up on the wrong continent. It's 8:46 am. Everything will be okay.

MIND: Don’t do it.

ME: But he asked me about my writing which is essentially asking about ME, so…

MIND: He, just like your reader, does NOT need to know every single thing about you. You have this bad habit-- you tend to divulge way too much too soon. Retaining some mystery is a good thing, trust me.

ME: I’m an open book.

MIND: And not a very good one, honestly. Mediocre at best. Entirely, way too much, over-the-top hyperbole. Sloppy form. Typoes. Enough tired cliché to choke a horse. Anyone with literary chops that reads you winces. You try too hard.

ME: It's called being earnest.

MIND: This is you: ‘please clap’.

ME: Stop.

MIND: You stop.

ME: “I love to write about feelings. I mean, I really FEEL feelings deeply, so I write about them. Mostly deep things about deep feelings… Sometimes feelings just well up within me and I have to let them out in a poem. Ohh, and I love to write about nature, too. Nature is so beautiful and makes me feel free so yeah, I write about that also.”

MIND: Holy shit. You really are a real boner killer.

DATE: *fidgets intensely with phone*

MIND: Evasive maneuvers deployed *face palm*

DATE: “Shit. I’m so sorry, I gotta take this call…” *promptly slides out of booth*

MIND: Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a runner!

ME: Wait—no. You’re wrong, Mind.

MIND: You do realize there was no phone call, right?

Many minutes pass…

ME: He’s not coming back, is he?

MIND: Nope.

ME: I’m going to remain alone for the rest of my days, aren’t I?

MIND: Now dear, don’t you worry. There’s sure to be other guys out there who like girls that write plodding, banal rubbish about their feelings.

Also, on a completely unrelated note: let’s swing by the shelter to check out those cats for adoption.

“How did you know I write? It’s not something I‘ve shared.”

”It’s pretty obvious from your profile. Besides, anyone who speaks so deliberately, so articulately; who uses the vocabulary you use… that person must feel a need to write those words down for posterity, mustn’t they?” As she spoke a long, elegantly painted finger twisted itself around a hanging tendril of hair, whilst the faintest whisper of a smile haunted her otherwise stoid expression. “I simply adore a writer,” she cooed.

Stoid, that is, but for her eyes.

I sensed that we had reached a fulcrum in our conversation. That the beginnings of a salacious relationship teetered upon my reply. But was that what I really wanted from this woman I had just met? Sex? And all of the heavy lifting required afterwards?

She was obviously smart, and playfully beautiful, but mostly I was drawn into those famished eyes of hers which gazed hawkishly back into my own, and to that instinctive caution I felt; that at any moment she might slide over until she was close enough to take a bite from that tender muscle just above my collarbone, her lips and tongue massaging away the pain her teeth would inevitably cause to the fabric of my being.

Of course that is what I wanted, sex. It was why I was here, wasn’t it? But I was a middle-aged, long off the market man feeling his was through this strange, new, matriarchal world, so I selected my words carefully.

“I would hardly call myself a writer.” I spoke slowly, my thoughts tempered by both humility and caution. “What I do,“ I ventured, “is to post stories for other aspiring writers to read on a website in hopes of a few ‘likes’, a couple of reposts, and maybe, if I’m lucky, a generous comment or three? It is nothing glamorous.”

The pointed toe of a heeled pump found my boot under the table, resting itself against my foot, whether accident or signal who could say? But the toe stayed there, not pulling away. “So tell me, Huckleberry. What is it you write on this website that other aspiring writers ‘like’, and repost, and comment on?”

My posture literally sagged as my confidence waned. “Well, I’m partial to happy endings.”

The toe moved away from my boot. “So, you write… fairy tales?”

”Well, not exactly. But fiction.”

”Ewww! I abhor fiction.“ She picked up her expensive cocktail, downing it in a swallow, as I had only until recently hoped she might do to me. “Sorry, but I have to go let my dog out.”

”I understand.” It was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected.

”… and to think I was about to let your dog out.” Her nose curled up as she said it as from an unpleasant odor, and she made short, quick strides towards the door, leaving nothing but a shadowy wisp of shea butter on the air to remember her by.

Quicker than I could raise a finger for the waitress to bring the check a mousy brunette slipped herself into my date’s still-warm seat, an ice cold beer in either of her hands. She slid one of the across the table towards me. “I heard it all. Believe me, she wasn’t your type anyways. I, on the other hand, love a happy ending.”

Thankfully for this amateurish writer the night was still young, and another chapter that might be liked, reposted and commented upon waited to be written.

Henry is typing...

It popped up in the online portal for my brilliantly boring anthropology class. Our professor loved what he taught, that much was clear, but he had a tendency to drone for the two-hour-long class in monotone bass, delving into the intricacies of juxtaposed stories of humans gone by. The fact that I stayed awake at all was impressive. I doodled on my scrap paper, maintaining the image of a devoted, note-taking student while drawing abstract sketches of eyeballs, intermixed with the odd existential question.

I aced every test.

Henry sat behind me in class, no doubt noting my utter lack of attention, marveling at my top score posted in the hallway after midterms. I had a study group...and he wanted in. He was a gentle young man with kind eyes and long, elegant fingers. I'd admired his artists' hands on many occasions out of the corner of my eye, sometimes trying to capture the rapturous lines of his thumb on my notepaper, always to no avail. You couldn't draw hands like his. Henry was obviously brilliant, in that quiet sort of way, but I'd avoided him like the plague when I'd formed my little study group. He was dangerous. I could tell the things he did with those hands.

He played acoustic guitar.

And ran fingers under lines of Shakespeare.

He painted portraits of girls with blonde curls and green eyes.

And wrote.

He tucked wisps of hair behind ears... with those hands.

Yes, Henry and his artist hands were dangerous.

They were dangerous because I was engaged.

And I wanted them all over me.

Henry is typing...

A private message.

How the fuck did you score like that on the midterm? Hawthorn is notorious for his tests. No one has ever gotten higher than an 85.

...

Shit.

I shouldn't even start this conversation. I should continue to ignore him. There's something in the air between us that would be better left untouched. I'm engaged.

But I'm a pushover...

I can't just ignore him.

That would be rude.

...Hey.

Hey back...

... So are you gonna cut me in? How are you getting all of his reading in with your other classes? I'm taking 12 credits and I don't have time. Are you on half time or something?

You're gonna be disappointed. It's not all that brilliant. I don't do the reading... I'm full time. 19 credits.

What the actual hell? YOU must be brilliant.

I'm not. But fine, come to study group next Wednesday, 3pm in the student center. We meet by the fountain.

Shit. I have class then. Meet me for coffee before class on Monday?

Fuck me. He gave me a compliment, had a potty mouth, and liked coffee.

..I'll buy.

I really shouldn't. I'm engaged.

What does that have to do with anything? Can't a friend take another friend out for coffee in hopes they'll reveal the secrets of passing class? It's not like it's a date or anything. I just need help.

Fine. you had me at coffee.

10am? Meet me at the Witching Brew. It's on 4th.

I'll be there.

I wanted to take back the words the second they were typed. My fiance lay snoring on the bed next to me, his face relaxed in blissful ignorance. I knew then that I was a terrible person, and that I would be going to meet Henry anyway.

_______________________

It was cloudy when Monday morning came. I stooped under the door of the Witches Brew five minutes late. I could feel Henry's eyes. This wasn't about studying.

I wound my way through the crowded coffee house, arriving finally at the little table in the back corner he'd chosen. He gestured for me to sit, a mischievous glint in his eye. "It's so good to see the front of you," he teased, extending his long hand to clasp mine in greeting. I took his hand and sat, waiting for him to let go, but he didn't.

We held hands over the tabletop, and though we were still strangers, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

For a moment I got lost in the dangerous glint in his eyes, but then I stole my hand back and tucked it under the table, muttering, "I'm engaged," under my breath.

"But not married," he whispered back.

"I should go." I stood.

"Please don't." His eyes were pleading, "I'm sorry. I see I went about this wrong... there's just something about you. I... I can't stop thinking about you. I..fuck... I said too much--"

"I'm here to study," I said, fixing him with a stern gaze and sitting back down.

"I know that. Right. I know that." He smiled, "sorry again...so..." The air was rife with the sexual tension I refused to acknowledge (to his face anyway). "How do you do it?"

I was having a difficult time getting my mind off of what he'd said-- I can't stop thinking about you-- but I finally found it in myself to speak, "Do what?"

"Study, of course- for Hawthorne's class."

"Oh, that. Um. I don't, really." He just looked at me with a tiny crinkle between his perfect eyebrows before waving a hand, urging me to continue. I took a deep breath and launched in, forgetting for a moment that I was sat across from a man who was trying to steal me away from my betrothed (terribly romantic, by the way), "Okay, so by about the second week of term, I realized there was no way I could do the reading... so... you know Jennifer, right? Sits in the front all of the time. Black hair. Glasses?"

He nodded in understanding, "Well... she does allll of the reading. So... I asked her to study with me. I read one small section and then just bullshit while she tells me about everything else. I take a few notes and study those. It's like having the highlights without doing any of the work. Clark-- the tall guy--" Henry nearly spit coffee at that, and I chuckled, too. Clark was unreasonably tall, really. His head brushed the doorframe when he came into lecture. "-- anyway-- he also does the reading. So I just sit there and let the two of them bicker over the chapters and take notes on the most important points. Then, I interrupt and act really smart and talk about the paragraph I read.... see... simple."

"Genius," Henry replied with the one word to my rambling.

"Thanks?"

"You're welcome. So, do you have any other interests aside from conquering the entire university system?" He leaned back and steepled his fingers expectantly.

"Um.. well... I write."

A slow smile spread on his face, "I knew it! What do you write about? What genre?"

The moment writing was brought up I stopped worrying entirely about my fiance. This was my kind of conversation and one that I would never be able to share with the man I was about to marry.

"Do you write, too?" I asked.

He smiled, "Duh."

I smiled back, "Well, I write a little bit of everything. But. I usually just write stories about my life."

"Really? I bet they're marvelous." He took my hand again and we got lost in conversation for the next several hours. We missed class. I missed the lunch date I'd promised my fiance. We'd eaten several blackberry scones and drunk countless cups of coffee. I had never before or since experienced such instant chemistry with another individual. I was right. He did play guitar. And write. And read. And paint.

And when he reached up to brush fallen curls behind my ear, I let him. He leaned in.

I leaned in. "I can't stop thinking about you," he whispered again.

"Neither can I," I replied.

"You're engaged...?" he questioned.

"...but not married..." I smiled. And just then, my phone rang, shattering the spell that had clung to us for the last several hours in the Witches Brew. It was my fiance.

"Are you alive?" he asked, in familiar baritone.

"Yes," I replied, "Just got caught up studying, sorry." Henry snickered at that and I winked.

"Oh good-- I was worried about you. I'm glad you're okay. Take your time, babe, I have dinner on for when you get home." Every word chipped away at the delusion Henry and I had been crafting. "I love you," he said.

And I replied, "I love you, bye."

Henry's face shattered at that.

I set down the phone and looked at him with a terrible wistful longing... Oh, what could have been...

"I'm too late," Henry said, resigned, "I've showed up too late for my soul mate."

"I'm sorry," was all I could muster. What he'd just said was true, and we both knew it. We also knew I was too much of a coward to break things off with my fiance. I stood and turned to go.

"Wait," he said, and I hoped he would beg me to stay, I hoped he would fight for me, but we were still just strangers, caught in the snare of love at first sight, "Did I make the cut? Will you write about me, someday?" I walked back to the table and tucked his own curls behind his ear.

"I will."

I walked away, forever haunted by what might've been-- by the kiss we didn't share.

And today:

Henry is typing...

He finally made the cut.

My writing is careless at best. I rarely proofread or plan. Usually, I spit some shit out on the page and hope for the best. I wish I could say it's some artistic choice to show the frailty and imperfections of existence, but it's really that I lack discipline. I guess it's a bit like fucking. Give it all the hell you have in the moment of inspiration, but you know you could have done so many things better if the goal was perfection rather than getting lost in the moment. I guess that means a typo is like knocking on the wrong door. Just laugh at yourself and keep at it and embrace the joys of imperfection. As long as the closing sums up intention the reader is left satisfied. So my shits unrefined as hell, but I like to think there's a certain beauty and innocence flowing within my awkward wordings and forced lines or conclusions. When inspiration hits, just spit it out and move on. Wait for the next time a moment cracks you open enough you feel it's worthy of sharing. Repeat. So ya, a lot like fucking.

I’m so glad we found each other. You were looking for someone tortured, broken, and hopeless... yet articulate, correct? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done this. We put ourselves out there, hope someone takes notice... and then let’s face it, it takes a lot of work to try to build a meaningful relationship. Such is the world of this online dating scene.

We've been here before

Tiny smattering of hope

Could this be the one

“Which genre?” Was the question, and I was too scared to choose. What if I were a click away from the perfect match for me, but we were separated by a stupid label? But as fate would have it, you did find me, and I’m nervous as hell now because of the next test: “Describe your writing.”

The first impression

Just be yourself and exude

Authenticity

I want you to feel comfortable. I want the struggle to happen on my side of the page, not yours. I’ll always put in the work so that the reading is as easy and consistent as I can make it. I want the message to sink in slowly, effortlessly. To do that, I need to understand every syllable of every word, the origins and common misinterpretations, and how their meanings change upon their arrangement and association. No mistakes. By the end of a chapter, I'll have twenty tabs open across the top of my screen, and I’m a budding novice in twenty more practices, fluent in twenty more fields.

Properly inspired

Every word is a thousand pictures

Tantalize the mind

I feel the the words touching you—touching, caressing, teasing, and exploring you—you feel each finger, each stroke of a key, I will not take advantage of you, but those are my fingertips touching you, my hand tracing lightly the lines of your right palm, waiting for the next scroll. I see the color of your hands—Rosé, Chataeu d’Eclans. I study them like poetry, like every inch of skin, knowing precisely how they feel on your lips, how they respond to pressure, how they flow off the tongue. An entire chapter on a single hand, and a glass of wine spilling from the other.

Seeking perfect words

The lock searches for the keys

They fit perfectly

You say you love me, but it’s only this temporary part of me you interpret as beautiful, as vulnerable, as interesting or wise. That’s fine. It’s a good start, and if we have a second date, perhaps you’ll dig deeper and learn more. I know this internet dating is a fickle thing. You’ll come by, you’ll leave me for another, you’ll come back when I call, but only until someone else calls again. You’ll click from lover to lover just as passionately as we seek our words. I understand.

Such a simple thing

A mint left on my pillow

A tap on my heart

I’m just glad we got to spend this time together, and if perchance this is our first date, I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you’ll return for another romp or adventure or... casual stroll. Whether you seek something meaningful or light-hearted, whether temporary or life-altering, I highly recommend TheProse. and if our first date wasn’t everything you wanted, simply click another lover, and put them to the test. It seems unfair to give you this much of our hearts in exchange for a silly click before moving on to the next date, but we'll do it all again and again, and who knows? Maybe...

I can't help you.

I don't know what to tell you.

I don't know what is wrong.

Do you speak?

Can you speak?

Can you speak to me?

Can you tell me what is wrong?

If you tell me what is wrong, I can help you.

I can help you, if I know what is wrong.

Are you scared that I won't help you, if you told me what was wrong?

Are you scared that I might hurt you, if you tell me what is wrong?

Or is it too hard to tell me what is wrong?

Do you know what is wrong?

If you don't know what is wrong, how can I help you?

I can help you find out what is wrong.

Let me help you find out what is wrong.

You don't need to say a word.

Let me show you that I won't hurt you.

Let me show you that I won't hurt you, when I found out what is wrong.

If I find out what is wrong, I will tell you.

If I find out what is wrong, I will help you.

If I find out what is wrong, I will not hurt you.

If I find out what is wrong, and I don't hurt you, will you talk to me?

If I find out what is wrong, and I help you, will you tell me what is wrong?

If I find out what is wrong and I help you, will you give me a chance to love?

If I found out what was wrong, and I did not hurt you, that is love.

If I find out what hurt you, and I do not hurt you, that is love.

If I find out what is wrong and I save you, that is love.

If I love you, I will find out what hurt you and I will save you.

If I love you, I will not hurt you, I will save you.

If I love you, I will save you.

If I find out what is wrong, I will still love you.

If you are wrong, I will still love you.

If you tell me what is wrong, I will still love you.

I will still love you.

I will love you.

I love you.

But I can't help you.

I don't know what to tell you.

I don't know what is wrong.

Oh. Okay.

Most people don’t ask me that. They just kinda say “that’s cool” and move on.

Alright, so…I like, like a lot of different stuff. I’m a Gemini, so I’ve got my hands in a little bit of everything but uh, yeah…

Poetry is my first love. But it’s honestly not my strength. I’m working on a few novels that have a lot to do with like, mental health and breaking cycles, generational patterns, stuff like that. They’re kind based on my experiences but also not really. Oh, and I really dig horror and sci-fi so I’ve got some stuff for that, too. I have this whole 5-10-15 plan as to when and where I’m gonna put stuff out.

Yeah, years.

I’m not all that patient but I am kinda methodical so I think it balances itself out. I know fifteen years is a long time but I’ve been at this for like a decade already, so it’s whatever, honestly.

Oh, and I have a lot of creative non-fiction and some essays but I have no freaking clue what to do with any of that…maybe start a blog or something?

What do you mean, “what’s my vibe?”

I guess like…kinda reflective and flowery but also a little dark with this “who hurt you” tone. I try not to be too depressing. I’m secretly a huge optimist, but don’t tell anyone- moody and mysterious is kinda my brand-

Seriously? Right here at the table?

I thought this was a date, not an open mic…okay, lemme get my phone.

One sec.

Okay, this is a piece I wrote for this website called Prose…now, it hasn’t gotten a lot of traction but this one writer I really admire liked and reposted it and honestly that’s good enough for me…

Sure. I’d love one. Whiskey ginger, no ice with a lime.

Yes. I know. It’s an old man drink.

Ooh, hurry back. Just found the post.

I have many interests, and I always try to blend several into a single storyline. I am interested in linguistics (I created my own language), mythology (I wrote a mythological horror novel), sci-fi (I wrote a sci-fi novel, which also included existentialism and futurism), theology (I wrote a sneaky religious novel about Christ disguised as a comedy), psychology (I wrote a psychological thriller novel), and women's health (I wrote a pregnancy book--published for real, really, not-self). Blending these disparate things always comes up with something unique, which is my biggest goal: to write something the likes of which no one's ever seen before. Oh, are you going to eat that? Check, please!

"well-" i hesitate

he look at me curiously

"it's a little weird"

i look at my phone furiously

as it vibrates again

"don't be angry"

he says gently

"poetry" I blurt out

but it pulls him in eventually

"angry but beautiful"

I describe with delight

"morbid but real"

the words set his face alight

"inspired, but original"

it's getting good now

"growing pains personified'

he asks me how

"my anger and my sadness

all of it at once"

he smiles at me

and asks me to read one