He looked into my eyes and began to speak. My pupils locked onto his, my usual attempt to intimidate- or force empathy.

I wasn't paying attention. Not this time. Or the last time. Or the time before that. I didn't need to. His reasons were always the same. I could zone out, dreaming of a life free from conversations like this, and then come back at a moment's notice with a loosely relevant rebuttal.

His arm slipped around my waist. That was my cue. My shoulder dropped. I said my lines. Beer breath and stubble grazed across the tightening muscles of my neck. Tiny wails erupted from the other room and interrupted his attempts at recovery.

I seized the opportunity and leapt to my feet. He tugged at the crotch of his tightening jeans and indicated he'd wait for me to return. I hoped for the soiled diaper of an especially hungry child. The longer I took, the more likely it was that he'd be asleep when I returned.

I am a slave to my patterns- and his.

Winter blew into town once each year, frosting the sleepy docks like a cake.

The few remaining gulls brave enough to croak in freezing temperatures found their voices muffled, their cries ricocheting off the gunmetal sea to softly plop onto the enveloping snow.

In town, snowdrifts piled themselves along the one main road, and residents and passersby alike made sure to wear tall boots because hidden encumbrances like potholes and shallow ravines -- that could easily be avoided after the thaw -- became unknown hazards when winter cast its blanket over the countryside.

On this particular day, about one hundred years ago, give or take a decade, one lone figure stumbled along the road through town after escaping a near brush with death.

His morning had started on the frosting of the docks listening to the muted calls of the sea birds. He had hauled the protective tarp off his little rowboat, clambered down and in, and then cut a smooth wake over the slowly undulating waves, dropping a makeshift anchor when the small harbor and shore became thoughtful suggestions in the distance. He baited and cast a line, carefully, over the worn side of his craft so that the hook slid into the water like a practiced diver. A crisp breeze twirled the tip of his long beard and knifed into any exposed skin. He pulled down his hat and nestled into his thick coat and waited. The motion of the boat, coupled with the almost-silent watery landscape soon had him nodding, nodding, chin down on his chest, asleep.

He dreamed of fish. Swimming, swimming, glittering just below the surface. Now jumping out of the water, now jumping into his boat. All of the fish in the ocean, scrambling over the sides to be the first into the boat. So many fish. Too many fish. And now a shark. With its mouth open wide it scaled the small rowboat's side, tipping it dangerously, and landed right on the man's foot.

He awoke with a jolt and almost wished he was still dreaming because, to his dismay and all too literally, icy water burbled with vigor through a hole in the hull. He looked down and saw that the water came up to his ankles, and the metaphysical shark that startled him awake had in fact been some of that water seeping into his boots through poor patching of the worn leather.

Looking to shore, which seemed an eternity away now, he hurriedly pulled up his small anchor, which caused his craft to pitch back and forth, a motion that encouraged the aquatic input. Grasping his oars, he tried to row, but by this time, water levels had risen to just below his knees. Frantic, the man again jerked his eyes to shore and saw, could it be? A figure.

***

I go to the seashore every morning to look for pretty stones when it snows I have to dig for the stones because the snow is thick and I have to find the stones I like throwing the stones at the water because sploosh I like the water but mustn't get too close because my mommy told me that if I fall in the water when there is snow I will freeze and become a big chunk of ice that will float around the world forever and will never be found again and I will never see my mommy or daddy again and that makes me cry every time I hear it because I love my mommy and daddy and I never want to leave them alone and then I and then I and then look at the birds this morning and the steam coming off of my mouth and the big the big the what is that thing in the ocean is that a bird why does it flap its one long arm it should use two long arms because it has two long arms with feathers although that arm looks more like the bones we see after eating the birds at dinnertime maybe daddy will know what it is I will go tell him since he came with me to the seashore this morning but let me wave first because sometimes birds are friendly and you can tell someone is a friend if when you wave they wave back at you

***

It was a child. A blasted child, that little boy, what was his name, oh it does not matter at the moment, is he even old enough to know what a man in a boat a long way from shore looks like? The man raised his oar, which caused the weight distribution of the boat to shift and allow in even more water. He would shake his oar with all he had and maybe, maybe the boy would realize something was wrong because men on boats do not usually shake a paddle above their heads if everything is going all right. Oh hurry, hurry, thought the man. Look this way.

***

How oddly that bird shakes its long wing I waved at it once and it waved even harder back let me wave again

***

Oh that fool boy has no idea what is going on, thought the man. Why is he just standing there waving at me? I must wave more.

***

There goes the bird with its two wings now but why are they so long and oddly shaped and where are the feathers maybe it is scared maybe it is hurt maybe a mean sea creature ate its feathers and maybe it needs help I will wave with both of my hands now to show that I see it

***

NO NO NO, thought the man. GO GET HELP. Do not COPY my paddle waving by waving your own hands.

The wind had begun to pick up and the man's boat still lay a good distance from shore. The only sounds between the interpretive dance in the boat and the wildly flailing arms on land were the gentle lapping of waves against the snowy shore and ice-encrusted dock, and the echoes of gulls on the breeze. Nevertheless, even without hearing cries of distress, the boy on that shore slowly began to comprehend that flapping bodies at sea may need some assistance.

***

Oh that is not a bird how silly of me to think that was a bird I see a leg now and that must be a boat but why is the boat all crooked my daddy will probably know what to do I will give one final wave and the go get my daddy

***

COME BACK, thought the man with intensity. Yelling would do no good as the wind that blew strongly now came off the land and pushed his boat away from the shore. The boy had given one last great shake of his arms and had disappeared. The man in the boat could not longer feel his feet and had begun to use one tall boot to bail water. What a way to go, he thought, flapping to my own oblivion.

***

Daddy sure runs fast I am glad I told him of the strange bird oh no man in a boat at sea he was so far away I could not tell what he was at first but now that I know he is a man who does not have very long wings I mean arms but is dancing on a crooked boat that makes me happy and maybe one day I will be happy and dancing on a crooked boat on the water on a snowy morning I bet rocks make bigger splooshes out in the water I will have to take all of my favorite rocks and row out to where people can barely tell I am also a people to throw in the water to see the rocks splash

***

With a thunk that sounded like the gates of heaven, the little boy's father's own boat knocked into the rowboat filled quite nearly to the brim, an almost-frozen stew with only one ingredient: a thoroughly soaked and shivering man with a beard that looked like a sodden furry animal.

Once rescued, and covered with a heap of old rags and the boy's father's coat, the nearly-drowned man looked at the bubbles where his rowboat sank and chattered a silent dirge in its memory.

***

Now the man wearily trudged home, still shivering. He had patted the head of the boy that saved his life, but could say nothing as his teeth continued to rattle and clatter like a cutlery drawer overturned down some stairs. He had shook the hand of the boy's father and tried to look as grateful as a human iceberg can look.

His boots squelched as he walked, walked, walked up the road, into town, and out of the town, along the one main road that would lead him to his home where his wife would have a fire in the hearth and probably some food and maybe another blanket or ten and he could get out of his boots and thoroughly scrutinize the hole that had both saved him and then probably would be the cause of his frostbi-

The man disappeared into a snowdrift with a puff of powder, discovering a ditch that he could have easily avoided had the snow not been piled upon it. He lay there for some time, trying to pinpoint the actions or thoughts of his that might have brought these calamities upon him. Which capricious winter god or fairy had found it necessary to humble him?

He eventually gathered the strength to huff and puff his way out and up, back onto the road. He made it to the door of his house, more snow than man, and, turning the knob, collapsed through it into the warmth inside.

She sees my hand coming,

sliding, slipping

through her hair;

frisking, frolicking

around her ears;

plunging, pushing

down, so I can see

a screen?

poking out of...

I feel her touch;

long nails pressing

against my chest,

lifting my head

away from her... phone?

Half out of her pocket,

big, bright, bold.

My best friend's name?

No, must be imagining things,

Need to confirm.

Stumbling, staggering;

our eyes don't move, still

latched, locked

with hers, but my head

tipping, tilting.

Pointing at his name.

Face turning red.

She goes to grab my hand,

I turn, brush her off,

push her off.

Long nails tapping

on my shoulder,

I turn back,

she's pointing at a present,

big box, wrapped in gold

with his and her name attached.

For me?

For me.

Also the fist rapidly growing

closer to my face,

that is also for me.

Guess I deserve it

eyebags scooped up her tears like a bowl

filling to the brim before streaking down her face

jaw set tight, holding back what little she could

with each breath, something breaking

although her lips would tell lies

nothing but truth was revealed in her eyes

he would sigh

then leave without ever saying goodbye

I knocked—one rap, a pause, then four raps in quick succession—and he opened the door. He walked back to table and stared out the window. The table was the small hotel standard, the window anything but. The city stretched wide through the floor-length glass, dark with ten thousand pinpricks of light below. All the same, once I had latched the door behind me, it was the table that commanded my attention. I sat in the other chair and folded my hands.

He did not move. Seated across from him, I noted he looked upward, rather than down toward the buildings and streets. He looked to the sky. Whatever he hoped to find there, he wouldn’t, and it had nothing to do with the clouds.

When I cleared my throat, he finally turned. I raised my brow in question. He closed his eyes, but he gave the nod, and I slid the envelope of bills to my side of the table. He still did not speak, so I did a rough count. My rate is $25K. As I’d expected from our previous conversation, he gave me fifty.

Miscommunication is nobody’s friend, certainly not in my line of work, so I lifted my hand, two fingers. His lips trembled, his eyes filled, but he gave the second nod.

I tucked the envelope in my coat pocket and left him, so he could stare at the floor or the clouds or the city where he’d spend the next three days. A phone call would interrupt his stay. He’d have to book a flight home for the funerals.

Through the smoky air I see her across the bar, playing pool and wearing jeans she must have been poured into. The light glints from her earrings as she bends over and sinks the 8-ball. I look around, and notice that every man in the place is watching her as well.

Well, hello gorgeous.

She looks my way, so I roll the dice and wink; her small grin is an invitation I can’t ignore. I salute with my beer, tilt my head slightly, and smile. Her grin becomes a bright smile, so I raise my eyebrows and tip my head in the direction of the door. In response, she nods ever so slightly. Without breaking eye contact she slowly licks her upper lip. Her eyes narrow, and she lightly bites her bottom lip before stepping over to the bar and downing a shot glass of clear liquid.

Please, let that be tequila.

She makes a small pout and turns the empty shot glass upside down. Her eyes find mine again, and change from a playful teasing sparkle, to hopeful questioning. I pull out my wallet, and as I walk toward the bar I cant help but grin.

This may just be my lucky night…

------------------------

©2023 - dustygrein

As a little girl it was easy to trust, to believe in myths and fairytales.

It was easy to see the light through the darkness in people and times

Funny how that all changes as time grows, People tend to change you. Mold you into the opposite of who you were as a child. making you overthink every situation.

people leave that promised to stay and those close to you often are ones that betray.

I use to trust in everything and anything. But now I can say I love you without having trust. I can say I care without feeling completely feeling safe that you feel the same way too. I can give you all off me while my walls are still standing firm.

is built on granite

Sandstone after a rain

breaks apart in your hand

like a smile once the love is gone

To trust

feels like building a fire

Even after the rain

the tinder can spark

if you nurture the flame

Trust what your hands have built

Shape yourself after the rain

Notice, what gets washed away?

Look, what remains?

Trust in

the light of your mind

Take time to practice being okay

with everything, all at once

just for a short moment

Just in yourself

for one short moment

Trust

Photo by Robert Zunikoff on Unsplash

#poetry #selflove #trust