Blink code

[to Ivan] If I’m ever in a position where I can’t move and can only communicate with my eyes, help me sent up a code! With blinking. And I will do the same for you.

For poorer

On the positive side, she thought, you really get to know someone when you have spent some time broke with them.  When there's no money for restaurants and bars and trips you have to be more resourceful about having fun.  Small things--like soy sauce to go on top of the plain white rice--seem like luxuries.  You get good at amusing each other for free.  She had known those things already, but she'd learned something new with this period of poverty.  She had learned what it was like to have someone steal food for her.  The profound gratitude and loyalty she felt when he returned with something to eat and physically put it into her hands when she was hungry and humble and vulnerable...well, that was new to her.  A lot of people didn't understand a lot of things about their relationship, to be sure, and this was one more that not many would comprehend.  But to her loving someone meant nourishing them with food, and when he opened his bag and pulled out what he managed to find, she wasn't sure if she had ever been loved more.

Once upon a time

They stood in the dark on their last night together, running their hands over each others' bodies in silence. "You must know I'm falling in love with you," she said softly, her voice cracking with emotion.

"That's a little impractical, don't you think?" he asked quietly.

She covered her face in her hands with hurt and embarrassment and curled into a protective ball.

Snippets

"I don't want you to hate me," he said, stifling a sob. I put my arms around him.

"I don't hate you," I replied. "I love you."

* * * * * *

"Why can't you talk to ME!?" she shouted. "What kind of crazy fuck goes to a shrink?!"

* * * * * *

"You need to fight for yourself. Fight for yourself like I know you would fight for me," she said tearfully.

* * * * * *

"Even after all those years and all those hard times, my heart still beat faster when I heard his footsteps on the stairs," she said, a far-off look in her eyes.

* * * * * *

"I'm leaving him and he knows I'm leaving him," she typed to me.

* * * * * *

"I think it would be really something to know you," she said shyly, standing at the entrance of my cubicle.

* * * * * *

"I came to see you," he corrected. "I know you're moving to San Francisco and I thought you might like someone to go with you." Hope was written on his face.

"I have someone I'm going with," I said gently. His face fell.

* * * * * *

"I know it sounds boring, but I think it's the boring things I remember most," he said wistfully.

* * * * * *

"When I'm with you I remember things better and when I look at you it feels like home," she cried desperately. "You can't go!"

November 2001

We sat on the edge of the bathtub waiting in silence. I imagined that this could be the moment when everything changed, the point at which we departed from the path we were on and went down another for the rest of our lives. We might look back at this day in the bathroom affectionately, saying, “We freaked when we found out. Remember that?”

After another moment he looked at his watch and said, “Okay.” I bit my lip and got up and went to the sink to have a look.

“It’s negative,” I said quietly.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, negative,” I responded, looking at the test again, just in case it had changed all of a sudden.

He let out a deep breath. “I’m kind of disappointed,” he said softly. I looked up in surprise.

“What?” I asked incredulously.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m relieved. We can’t handle a kid right now. But I’m kind of disappointed, too.”

'Scratch that,' I thought. 'Maybe THIS is the moment when everything changed.'

An offer

He absentmindedly rubbed my five year old back as he watched a baseball game. My attempts to get him to talk to me were met with distracted one-word answers, and I wanted more of his attention. I only knew one thing that might work—it was what men liked.

I took a deep breath. “You can if you want,” I told him.

“Hmmm?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the television.

“You can if you want,” I said a little louder this time.

This took his eyes from the screen and he looked into mine. “I can what?” I flushed a little, not wanting to spell it out for him.

“You know,” I said simply.

“Hon, I don’t know,” he said. He hugged me and went back to watching the game.

Poised on the brink of something important...a tidbit

I watched him unabashedly, wanting him to notice. He was absorbed in putting drum equipment away and didn’t seem to pay attention to anything going on around him. In true high school girl fashion, I leaned toward Chaunette and said, “He’s so cute.”

Her eyes followed my gaze. “Oh, Eli?” she asked, using his nickname. “I’ve had a crush on him forever.”

“Really?” I asked, with mild interest. I felt no competition here. “Is he nice?”

“Oh, yes. He’s really nice! But he doesn’t say much,” she laughed.

I continued to stare at him, wondering if I could work up the courage to talk to him and—somewhere in the back of my head—filing away the details of this conversation so that I could tell him about it one day and we could laugh together.

Another tidbit

I sat huddled outside the door to the room all the girls were in. I was the only one my age in the shelter—all the other kids were babies or teenagers—and I was achingly lonely. I listened to them laugh and sing along to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” I hated Michael Jackson, and my shyness would probably prevent me from opening my mouth, but I still wanted to be in the room with those girls. Suddenly the door opened a crack, and a suspicious eye was cast on me. I turned toward it hopefully. “How old are you?” came a muffled voice.

I hesitated. Should I lie? “Eight,” I answered honestly.

“Will you tell anyone what we talk about in here?” the voice asked.

“No, I swear,” I answered with as much vehemence as I could muster.

One final question from the voice: “Do you like Michael Jackson?”

“I love him,” I lied while mentally vowing to apologize to God a hundred times later that night.

“Okay, you can come in,” the voice relented. And the door swung open.

Tidbit

I hurled myself against the door in an effort to block anyone from coming into the bathroom, screaming, “No! Don’t make me go home!” The door knob jutted into my ribs as my body collided with the door, and I grunted with pain. I could hear my classmates calling for Miss Wilking. I knew from experience that someone would take pictures of my bruises, and briefly I wondered if I should tell them that I caused this one.

I am planning to send my kids to summer camp.

I always wanted to go to camp myself, but my family was broke, broke, broke. So I slept in the backyard and ate clover, pretending they were special wild mushrooms I'd found that would give me the power to fly away if I just ate enough. I wonder what the neighbors thought--see the wild-haired little girl in the yard with her pillow, gobbling down grass, desperately wanting it to be enough.

Loving Blankey

As a child I had a blanket that I loved.

Blankey was an off-white, fuzzy thermal blanket with a satiny outside border about two inches wide. He didn't get washed very often since our parting was so difficult for both of us, but when he did I loved burying my face in his warm, fresh softness.

It was important for me to show Blankey how much I loved him. I would hug and nuzzle him and tell him repeatedly how important he was to me.

I began to worry, though, that this wasn't enough.

While I was hugging Blankey, I would notice that the part of him that was hanging down from my arms was not being touched. What if that part didn't feel loved? I'd scoop it up into my arms, too. Then I would notice a part of Blankey poking out near my shoulder. What if that part didn't feel loved? Unable to stand the thought of any part of Blankey feeling neglected, I would adjust and shift and hug until Blankey was in a hard little compact ball with my entire body curled around him--trying to touch every single part at once--in a fetal position on the floor.

My mom would say, "What are you doing?"

"Loving Blankey," I would answer in a strained voice, with my face nearly buried in my knees.