Doing the laundry is therapeutic; it’s like taking a tranquilizer that calms you and erases all the bad thoughts. As the clothes turn upside down inside the washing machines, your thoughts do the same. Some get recycled and others are deleted. Doing the laundry is a process of recycling, cleansing, erasing and saving. When everything is done and the machines stop turning, and you take out the whites and colors, the process is completed. And you feel satisfied.

I like doing the laundry. I like putting clothes inside the machines and taking them out, filling them with bleach and softeners, and then watching as they turn upside down, inside and out. As I walk inside the Laundromat, I smell freshness; it’s like spring air. And I breathe in and out. Inhale. Exhale. And my thoughts are cleansed, so is my soul. Everything is clean and purified and fresh.

Today was the first day of a new year and Maman asked me to do the laundry. So I did.

Their war was pathetic. Their battles never solved their problems, their disagreements or differences. Monica Sadler and Dave Keith were the unhappiest couple on Magnolia Boulevard. They slept on the same bed but they hardly ever kissed or held each in their arms before falling asleep or made love. They fought, not speaking to each other for days and then made up, reuniting again, apologizing to each other. It was a routine for them. Dave would come home, his shirt wrinkled after a long day at the construction site, his glasses skewed with dirt all over them, his breath stinking from cigarettes. He would drop his briefcase on the living room floor, not really caring where it would land, his designs and maps falling out, and then he would lie still on the couch, tired and bored. His wife Monica would appear from her office, wearing nothing but a silky, black bra and grey shorts, holding a violin bow in one hand, with a I’m-sick-and-tired-of-you-coming-home-looking-like-crap look and then she would disappear into her office again to write notes.

Dave Keith was an architect. Monica Sadler taught violin lessons at home and sometimes at Jefferson Middle School. They were married for two years and had nothing in common. They met at Monica’s friend’s wedding and claimed to their families and friends that they had fallen in love or that it was love at first sight. But the truth was that they were two desperate, lonely people in their mid-30s who needed a secure, official, permanent love, and not one of those flings or on-and-off kind of relationships. They dated for about two months and then one summer night, when Monica turned 36, Dave asked her to marry him because he was tired of unsteady relationships and failed romances. He wanted a wife. Not a trophy wife, but one who would love him in sickness and in health, who would be there when he came home late at night, weary and worn-out, the kind of wife who would never leave him. Except Monica wasn’t the typical wife. She was the type that partied with her girl friends every Friday and Saturday night, the kind that was too lazy to work everyday, the kind that hated cooking and cleaning and seldom ever said the words “I love you”.

They fought with each other over small things, like why Dave hated scrambled eggs and cranberry juice, or why Monica refused to learn cooking and didn’t have a proper job. They fought over the fact that they were never really in love with each other and should have never married. They fought over why they didn’t have kids or why their house was too big. Then they made up and Dave told her he loved her but neither one of them knew for sure.

Their war was pathetic, so was their marriage and relationship. Two years passed and then one evening Monica packed her stuff into a big, black suitcase and left. She never told Dave that she was two-months pregnant with his baby or that she was moving to London to play for a professional orchestra. She never told him that deep down she knew he had grown to love her, that she knew he wanted to hold her and touch her and watch her play because it was erotic and she played so beautifully. She knew from the way he kissed her neck as she played the violin in her silky, black bra, from the way he touched her and smelled her hair. She knew but never told him that she didn’t grow to love him, that she could never return his love.

I haven’t thought about her for so long that I have forgotten everything. I don’t remember her last words. She and her husband Ali came to see us for good-bye. They told us that they were moving and that no one would know their address. They were going in hiding. I never saw them again after that. Ali was the first to die. I cried so much for him; I was going insane.

Do you remember her face Maman?

Sometimes I see women who look like her and I picture her in my head. She had beautiful, thin brows. And her hair; it was smooth, black and silky.

Do you remember her last words?

No. I don’t remember. I never thought of her again. For years I worked hard to forget what happened. I erased memories and thoughts and events until there were only pieces left. And now that I try to put them back together, the pieces don’t quit fit anymore. It’s like dropping a jar full of pebbles into the sand, then watching them disperse either underneath the sand or into the ocean. It’s like losing a part of you, a part of your heart, a part of your soul. She was a part of me. We were always together ever since we were little girls. She was the trouble-maker, the rebel, not wearing her scarf properly, her bangs always showing, never wearing dresses or skirts. She and Ali could have had a normal life, with a big house and children. But they had different motives. They had another purpose in life. She didn’t want to be a mother or a housewife. She was Mina and I loved her a lot. And now I don’t remember anymore. I just remember knowing that she was gone. Yes, she was gone.

By the time she finally rose from her warm bed, it was already half past noon. Too late for breakfast. Too early for lunch. She wasn’t in the mood for either one. She wasn’t in the mood for the things she had planned to do. The laundry wasn’t done. Her cat Brie needed food. Her fridge needed refilling. And she had run out of beer.

Rain, I hate this god damn rain, she said out loud, yelling almost. She made a quick coffee, grabbed a pen and a clean piece of paper, and then went back to her bed. She had the urge to write him a letter, to let him know she still loved him, still felt the touch of his hands against her skin, still longed for his kiss, for his smell, for his touch. She was still in love with him. She wanted to write. She began jutting down words that first came to her mind, words that revealed all the feelings she had abandoned for so long, words she had longed to scream out. She poured everything out, her fears, her tears, her anger, her love, her hatred. It was as if she was living those emotions all over again, feeling them with her every bone. In the letter, she walked down the beach with him again, kissed him again, went back in time to when they were both young and in love and engaged. She lived with him again, and laughed with him and drank with him and danced with him. She became the girl she now envied, the happy girl in her memories that danced and laughed and loved the rain.

And then it stopped raining. She couldn’t write anymore. She was done. Her phone rang but she ignored it. She decided to take a sleeping pill and sleep the rest of the afternoon, the rest of the evening, the rest of the night. There was no reason to be awake, to make sense out of life, to drink, to write, to fall in love, to make love, to work, to exist. There was no purpose. Even happiness had ceased to exist for her. Everything hurt, every memory with him, without him, it all hurt too much.

She slept through a second coming of rain, and the thunder storm that followed, and she never heard the continuous ringing of her phone, or his voice message that said “I love you and I will come back if you let me.”

His mother’s death was abrupt. She was a healthy a woman, strong, hardworking, the type of woman that was paranoid about her health, one who had regular checkups and frequent doctor visits. She jogged every morning and ate the healthiest food. So when one morning Jimmy Kramer found his mother dead in her bed, he was shocked; he couldn’t say a word. His mother had died and he couldn’t say a word. He just stared at her pale face, her dead eyes and sat next to her on the bed.

The funeral was too painful for Jimmy. He was 19 years old, alone and confused. His father was somewhere in England but Jimmy didn’t know where. He and his father didn’t get along because Mr. Kramer was an alcoholic and always screamed and yelled at Jimmy and his mother. When Mr. Kramer took off, he only told them that he was going to England and that he didn’t want to contact them ever again. Jimmy was 10 when his father left. He only remembers that he hated his father for leaving, for drinking, for being the worst father in the world.

Now, Jimmy lives with his Aunt Sally. Aunt Sally is overweight, a brunette, and very tall. She loves Jimmy. She can’t have children because of a birth defect so she treats Jimmy as a real son and sometimes likes to tell her friends that he is her boy, all grown up and smart. She brags about his artistic abilities and his good grades. Jimmy loves her too because she is the only person who watched out for him and his mom when his father left. She was the one who comforted his mother and encouraged her to be strong.

Jimmy rarely talks these days. His girlfriend Rochelle calls him but he doesn’t answer his phone. He just stares at his paintings for hours and forgets to eat. He only draws faces, faces of women, faces of his mother. Mrs. Kramer was beautiful and he hates that he can’t quite make her as beautiful as she was. He hates that he can’t draw her eyes the correct way; her eyes were round and big, blue as the ocean, with long, curly lashes. He hates that what he draws in the end isn’t exactly her. He wishes that the women he draws would talk to him, pat his shoulders, kiss him on his forehead and hold him. He wishes that they would speak to him, tell him that everything was going to be okay. But the faces he draws do not speak, nor do they feel or become alive. They are dead faces, lifeless, corpses. Jimmy stops drawing then. He picks up his phone and tells Rochelle that they have to break up because he can’t think or speak or eat or sleep.

A month after the funeral, Jimmy Kramer grabs Aunt Sally’s gun and shoots himself in the head.

He felt the sun on his skin, his bare shoulders and arms, his toes. His legs were wrapped around hers, and the sun warmed them both, the rays shining on her golden hair. He liked the feeling, the setting, the warmth and the love he felt for her. He wanted the sun to forever shine on them, to be an eternal force that kept them safe together, kept them warm. She was still asleep, breathing quietly, her face toward his. They were snuggled close together, wrapped around each other the way a newborn is wrapped around a blanket. And they were happy, with or without the sun, they were happy together.

Then the sun disappeared and he suddenly remembered that he had been drafted for the war. He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. He didn’t have the courage, the power to break their bond, to break her heart, to leave her and abandon their dreams. He wanted to marry her but he would have to put it off for now. He wanted a baby with her, a house; he wanted his whole life with her. He couldn’t imagine life any other way, but now he had to.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. He smiled back and thought of life without her. He thought of a war he now had to be a part of. He couldn’t betray her like this, no not like this. He would do it later, not now, not when everything was perfect and she was happy and so close to him, and he could smell her intoxicating perfume and could feel her skin against his. No, he just couldn’t ruin this perfection, this utopia that she and him had created together. Maybe they could run away together to Canada. He did not wish to be a soldier, or a warrior, or a prisoner. He would be a husband, a father, and he would be hers forever. War wouldn’t be his life. The only battles he would fight would be battles with her, battles that would start bitterly but end sweetly, battles that would bring them closer.

He smiled again and they both closed their eyes.

Mr. Blake understood her very well. He knew why she felt alone and apart from the rest of the world. He understood why she ran away. In fact, he was the only one who understood her.

Her mother cried for days because Alice ran away without a word. And Mrs. Harrison just didn’t understand why Alice had left, or why their neighbor Mr. Blake was the only person who was calm about the situation.

“Mr. Blake, how can you just sit there and tell me that my daughter is fine? How do you know that?? What makes you think you know my Alice?” she demanded to know, throwing her arms in the air.

“Mrs. Harrison, your daughter is fine. You are exaggerating now. You must know that she is a writer. Every writer needs a story; Alice needed a story so she ran away,” he said, ignoring Mrs. Harrison’s flaunts. He was sitting across from her, leaning on the kitchen table, smoking his pipe, occasionally checking his watch.

Jim Blake was an honest man. A writer himself, a smoker, and he had known the Harrison’s for many years. He was a middle-aged man and was in love with Mrs. Victoria Harrison. Because Victoria was a faithful woman who was deeply devoted to her husband, Jim Blake never revealed his feelings for her. Instead, he became close to Alice, the perfect replica of Victoria, with the same blue eyes, the same pale lips, the same smooth, silky blond hair. He took her out for coffee and ice cream, to the movies, to the park, and they had a marvelous time together. Alice was 19, fresh and flirtatious, an attractive girl, talented and a fine writer. He loved to read her writings. He cherished every moment with her and wished he was young. Alice came to him for advice, for tips on being a better a writer, for talk. And Jim openly welcomed her presence, knowing very well that she would never become Victoria, that she would never understand his feelings.

Mrs. Harrison began to cry, not violently, but quietly. Mr. Blake got off his chair and held her.

“Look Victoria, Alice is going to be a great writer. You just have to trust her. She knows what she’s doing,” he reassured her, speaking gently into her ears.

They both sat down. Mrs. Harrison poured herself a glass of vodka and wiped the tears off her face. Mr. Blake offered her his pipe and she took it gladly.

They smoked for a while. Neither one of them said a word. Then when Mrs. Harrison heard her husband’s footsteps from outside, she asked Mr. Blake to leave quietly from the back door.

Jim Blake left without another word, forgetting to retrieve his pipe. He knew he was never going to see Alice again.

I asked her if she would have a cup of coffee with me. God, what was I thinking? She was a lawyer, at least 10 years my senior, though she could easily pass for a 20 year-old. I was her student. I forgot to mention that she was my law professor. It wasn’t a big class, around twenty to thirty people, eager law students I should say. We thought we were smart, studying law and all. But we were the average kid in our early twenties and we were making our parents happy by becoming lawyers or doctors or engineers or god knows what else.

Let me get back to Professor Lance. She was gorgeous; by all means the most beautiful face I’d ever set eyes on. And that’s pure fact. You could take a survey and everyone in the class would have agreed that she was absolutely stunning. Her face had tiny freckles; her eyes were green, very mysterious. She had gorgeous red hair that matched her red, luscious lips. But you see, she was my professor, totally out of limits, out of reach, just an impossibility. I couldn’t let her go though. In class, I’d stare at her, at her eyes, her beautiful mouth, with those perfect white teeth, at her smooth, long legs. Sometimes I’d tune her out completely so I could concentrate on watching her figure move. God, she was intoxicating, and I desperately wanted her. I was Adam and I wanted the forbidden fruit no matter what.

It was early October, a cloudy day, not a typical day to ask someone out. Professor Lance and I now officially knew each other for three months. I’d waited three months to gather my courage, to understand Professor Lance and her habits, her handwriting, her talk, her laugh. She liked to go for a smoke after class; I’d join sometimes. She never minded. In fact, she’d tell me things to pass the time and disallow for any awkwardness that my presence might have brought. She was very random; she would say something out of the blue like how her father died two years ago in a car accident in Boston. I could never follow her line of thought but I passionately enjoyed every moment that I was with her. She was so close to me. We’d stand shoulder to shoulder, and I could smell her Channel perfume, and I’d inhale the smoke from her cigarette. Then, I’d feel myself rising up, like I had no control over my body, like I was a balloon. Being around her made me feel high, and I wanted to melt and dissolve and become her cigarette, her perfume, reaching into her skin, her red curls…

“Professor Lance? How’d you like to grab a cup of coffee down at Lisa’s Café?” I asked when we went to our usual corner for a smoke. She was quiet that day, like she had no energy to speak. Her hair wasn’t combed and her eyes were sleepy. She had no make up on, but looked more beautiful than ever.

“Not today Mike. I’m not myself today. I need to smoke,” she said, avoiding my eyes. Her eyes were set on her damn lighter; she was trying to light her cigarette.

I said nothing. I didn’t even feel like smoking anymore. So I left her there, smoking alone. Who knows what was wrong with her. Hell, I didn’t know, and I’m not even sure I’d ever want to know.

Sandy Miles drove Harry to the airport at 2 p.m. She would drop him off and head back to her apartment in a rainy London. She would peel off her sweater and untie her boots, sitting by the edge of an unmade bed. She’d make herself a cup of tea, read the paper that she didn’t have time for in the morning when someone dropped it at her door. She’d then turn her TV on and would fall asleep on her couch.

But now, at this very moment, Sandy was thinking about Harry. She didn’t want to part from him because she knew he wouldn’t return. He was going to America. No one returns from America. Harry certainly wouldn’t. Once he gets his feet on the American land, once he feels the dirt and stone beneath his feet, once he fills his lungs with the fresh air and feels the wind against his skin, once he tastes it all, he will want to stay. Forever. He’ll never want to go back to what was once life for him in some other land, in a foreign place, somewhere far. Sure, he’d miss London, his birthplace, his mother, his old habits and routines. But he’d still be too drawn to the new place, to the new life. Sandy knew Harry would never return to London where it rained everyday and he didn’t make enough to pay his bills or buy her expensive gifts. She just knew.

They parted. Harry kissed Sandy and she kissed him back. They hugged and Sandy wanted to ask him not to leave, to reconsider, to change his mind. She wanted Harry to tell her he loved her too much to leave. But Sandy Miles simply watched Harry disappear into the crowd and she drove back to her apartment in a rainy London. She peeled off her sweater and untied her boots, sitting by the edge of an unmade bed. She made herself a cup of tea, read the paper that she didn’t have time for in the morning when someone dropped it at her door. She then turned her TV on and fell asleep on the couch.

He was an ethical man. He couldn’t expect a relationship with Mr. James’ young daughter. She was too young, too pure, too good for him. Henry Stevens was an ethical man, a faithful believer, a good person. He was a publisher, an editor, and was now working for Mr. James. He was to stay at the James’ ranch in the middle of Texas and help Mr. James with his autobiography.

The James’ daughter was no doubt an exceptional young woman. She was not at all shy; her mouth was always open, full of stories and jokes and surprises. Henry enjoyed her talks, her stories, and he found himself drawn to her, slightly attracted to her innocence, her purity, her candidness.

Everyday after lunch, the James’ and Henry ate ice cream on the porch, facing the ranch, the sun hitting their eyes. Rebecca James had two scoops of peach ice cream with a spoon of marmalade. She wore pink blouses, with tight jeans and untied shoes. Her hair was always in a neat ponytail, sometimes with a red ribbon. She reminded Henry of his high school’s cheerleaders, the ones that the football boys always fell for.

One afternoon when they were having their usual cups of ice cream out on the porch, Henry Stevens took an opportunity and spoke with Rebecca. Mr. James was out; he had not indicated where. Rebecca was alone with Henry, and Henry was delighted, jittery; he felt butterflies in his stomach.

“Say Rebecca, what’s it like, living in this magnificent ranch, eating ice cream everyday, doing as you please? Huh?” he asked, biting into his ice cream.

“Oh Mr. Stevens, it’s not all that you know. Sure I love it here. Sure I get to do as I please ‘cause Daddy doesn’t care as long as his only daughter is happy. But, it ain’t enough you know? It’s like, I want more. I want to see the city and all. All that noise and crowd and craziness. I can’t wait to be 18. I’ll run away or maybe I’ll just tell Daddy that I’m gonna go study something and be a rich girl, you know?” she said, laughing, licking the ice cream around her mouth.

Henry then realized that he could never really be anything in her life. He couldn’t give her anything. He was 33, and he’d already experienced both the city life and the simple life in Texas. He couldn’t possibly gain anything by befriending a 16 year-old child who had no idea what was out there, on the other side of the ranch, beyond the farms and the cornfields.

“You’ll love the city,” he finally said.

They finished their ice cream and returned inside. The sun was gone by then and Rebecca James had her mind on flashy cars and fancy parties and the Big Apple.

I like the orange wallpaper in her house. I like the way the colors match. The orange and the red and the yellow. It’s like a little a doll house, Sis’ house. It’s pretty and colorful and it makes me feel cozy and warm and happy. It makes me happy.

She read my future in the little coffee cup. Turkish coffee. I like the smell of Turkish coffee; it’s very reviving and strong. She told my fortune as I swung my bottle of beer in my hand. I was lying on her bed, a very comfy bed with soft, stripped pillows that you want to hug forever.

She has three pairs of slippers: blue, pink, and green. I wore the blue ones today as we ate our breakfast together, honey and butter. I like having breakfast with Sis in her little kitchen.

I like everything about that house. I think it’s perfect for Sis. I think she is perfect.

After breakfast we went back to Mom’s and Dad’s. I didn’t want to leave Sis’. I just wanted to stay there and look at the pretty colors of orange and red and yellow and how everything matched so well.

I was a doll. A happy doll in a pretty doll house with pretty, happy colors.

I wish I knew what Francis Cabrel was singing. But sometimes the unknown is more beautiful; it’s mysterious because you have to imagine the possibilities. The many possible meanings of those words that rhyme and sync.

I understand nothing. When you understand nothing and the world is meaningless to you, when you hear but you cannot talk back, when you exist but no one knows of your existence, you become nothing. I am nothing now. So I allow my imagination to do its work as I listen to Cabrel and melt in his songs. And then I am everything...

Grandma and I enjoyed a meal of rice and chicken together. She is a great cook. She knows how to make a typical food different, zesty, spicy, with the right amount of Saffron, the right amount of pepper. I tell her that she is a better cook than Maman because Maman doesn’t take risks with food. She cooks them the traditional way, never using additives. Maman says that you are not supposed to add Saffron to anything. But Grandma goes, “says who?”

I don’t think Maman is scared. I think she just likes her food that way. She’s always made it the same way and isn’t going to capitulate.

Not everyone is a risk taker. Not everyone can break tradition. Maman doesn’t take risks with cooking. That’s because she took a lot of risks back when she was a young girl. No, Maman isn’t scared. She never was.

She walks out of the laundry room, a black bra in her hand, and sees Mrs. X, her elder neighbor whom she doesn’t remember the name of. They greet each other and talk about the weather again. This time it’s about how cold and windy it is. Mrs. X assures her that she will not go out in this wind. Allison wants to tell Mrs. X that it’s a beautiful day anyway, despite the wind, that the sun is out and that it couldn’t be a better day. But she wants to be in agreement today so she nods her head as Mrs. X complains about the cold. Right before they part, Allison notices Mrs. X’s haircut and mentions that she likes it.

Then Mrs. X goes off to throw her trash down the chute. And Allison goes back to her apartment with the black bra.

She turns him on. She is sexy and he likes her. He might even be in love with her but no one knows. He never talks about her because he doesn’t quite know how he feels about her. He is a coward, scared. He is such a fool. He is going to lose her and he doesn’t even realize it because he is a f****** coward.

They met a while ago. Seems like a decade now. No details. They met, that’s all you need to know. And they went on dates but it was like, I don’t know, it’s hard to explain really. It was like, he liked the way she was around him. All loud and talkative and flirtatious and sassy. He just didn’t know what to do. What to say. He just got scared I think. He hid all his feelings because all guys like to hide their feelings because they hate to show their sensitivity. I mean for god's sake, a man doesn't show his real feelings! (Big laugh) She doesn’t know either. She tells me that she fell in love with him but got nothing in return so she had to move on. She’s lost and he is a coward and a fool. An idiot! A complete, sigh…idiot…

He came to see me. It was the summer of 85. I was still a writer. Let me rephrase that: I was a great writer. New York City and I were madly in love and I had finally been accepted. I thought I had it all; most great writers thought that way. So much was happening everyday that I couldn’t stop writing. It was as if I were a wheel that wouldn’t stop rolling. The roads would never end; they’d forever continue to open a new path for me, with new stories in every corner. I was so in love with the city that I forgot him. And I figured that he probably had forgotten me. So when he rang my doorbell one summer evening as I was enjoying a piece of chocolate, I was shocked. But he was there. Standing in front of me with the same smile that he’d worn ten years earlier. And we said hello and I fell in love with him all over again…

Don’t be fooled though, I was only playing with words. I didn’t fall in love again. No, that time had passed and I had moved on with a half broken heart. I say half because he never really gave me his heart. In other words, falling in love or its idea was all in the head of a writer. Nothing had happened, nothing had been said or done. In fact, everything was in my head. Everything.

But it was a little more complicated than that. I cannot say that he felt nothing at all because I don’t know, I never asked and he never said. What I did know, without a doubt, was that he cared for me, a lot, and perhaps loved me on his own terms. Whether or not he was in love, I cannot say. I was young so I did think that he was in love. Nothing seemed impossible to me.

To be continued...

He came to see me. I adored him so of course I jumped with excitement when he appeared at my front door, with a bottle of wine. White, I believe it was. He told me that he had read a lot of my books and that he’d never thought I’d go so far with fiction.

“Your male characters, most were me, weren’t they? And were you really in love with me?” he asked with a teasing smile.

I laughed and said, “I’m a writer. I say a lot of things.”

I didn’t give him a direct answer but he himself was an intelligent, witty writer and understood me well. He already knew.

Then we were silent, just looking at each other, enjoying the moment with our wine glasses and reminiscing about the past. He had not changed, but I had. I was not that loud, crazy teenager anymore. I had more pride now that I had been published and recognized in a city like New York. And I think he sensed the change. He was sitting in front of a known writer, not a child running around like a wanton, dreaming up stories and books and a published name. He had always told me I was great but I never accepted that. No, I said I was a fine writer, not great. I could be better.

“I love the wine. Thank you,” I broke the silence.

“I wasn’t sure, but I recalled from your writings that you don’t like red wine. Am I right?”

“You know me well dear John.”

“Hardly,” he said and winked.

I remembered how we used to tease each other, how I’d mock him and he’d sneer. We had such good times together. Short, brief, but memorable moments.

“So what are you here for? You don’t like this city and besides, I thought you’d forgotten me,” I said.

“You are not easy to forget. But you’re right. I don’t like this city.”

To be continued…

I waited for him to go on. I waited for him to say I came back because all these years I thought about you like I said I would. I waited to hear him say I thought of you and your success and wanted to say that I was in love with you too. I waited for him to say…

“I wanted to congratulate you on your success,” he said, breaking my thoughts.

Bull shit. I thought. Please don’t tell me you came all the way here just to congratulate me?

“Is that all you came to tell me? You could have just wrote me you know.”

He watched my eyes with a hurt look on his face. Then rose from his seat and walked toward my kitchen window facing the Empire State Building.

“I always knew you’d make it here. And I’m glad, no I’m happy and excited, and proud that you made it,” he said, staring outside.

I had nothing to say, I realized suddenly. What could I have said to this man? Could I have told him that I expected more from him, more than a bottle of wine and a congratulation, more than his words and his sincere happiness for my success? Could I have?

I could have, but my ego did not allow it. So I held on to my drink and said nothing for a while. It was silence again and I decided to politely ask him to leave since I was very tired.

“Listen. I um. Thank you. Really, thank you so much for everything. And I didn’t mean it like that. I just. I don’t know, I guess I never thought you’d be the kind to come down here to see me. And I am so glad you did.”

It was the most inarticulate phrasing of words. And I admit that my expectations were high, too high, like they had always been. I became a child again, the one who always wanted to talk, to say anything.

To be continued...

He left me. It was not a bitter parting, but a little dry. I had loved him and I felt like I deserved more. I thought that he would pour out his feelings like a patient who spills everything out to his therapist. And the therapist feels accomplished and lets him go. I, however, was nowhere near accomplished. I had failed to state my feelings. I had only succeeded in writing them in pure fiction. The danger of fiction is that people might not believe you in the end because they assume that you really don’t mean what you say.

If I were to re-write what happened that day in a form of fiction, I would write that before he left my apartment, I yelled out that I had been in love with him. I would write that I yelled it out and that he stopped and came back up the stairs. He then stood there and said with a big smile,

"I'll be here for a couple of days. You busy tomorrow?"

And then after that I would write that somehow we connected and spent time together.

But of course since I don’t believe in happy endings, the ones that leave readers hopeful and make them too satisfied, I would say that we spent some time together, but then he went back to his quiet Georgia town. He went back and he owed me nothing. I stayed where I was and wrote because someone had told me to write. We lived our separate lives and always thought of one another.

But I did not and would not re-write what happened because what happened was simply perfect on its own. Some things must stay in a writer's head, fiction or not.

The end.

The snow made everything disappear, even the bitter feelings and guilt. The guilt of being the other woman in his life. She was the other. The stranger. It wasn’t the joy of being promiscuous, nor was it the joy of being indecent and immoral. But there was something, something underneath that she felt herself getting a pleasure out of. Like the guilty pleasure of eating chocolate or ice cream. The pleasure of being with him was too good to let go of. Their affair was strange and beautiful and she wouldn’t end it.

Now that it snowed, she no longer felt remorse. She was selfishly enjoying a cup of tea by the fire place. She was waiting for him to come and make love to her. He would tell her that he felt incomplete without her. And she’d kiss his lips.

The next day, the snow stopped, the sun came out and melted the ice. A few days later everything became colorful again and she began to cry. She hated being the other.

The world stopped then. Time stopped for me. And I stood and felt an arrow cutting through me, through my heart, through my belly, cutting my baby girl, stopping her heart. I stood and watched how he drank his coffee, his head into the newspaper, grumbling to himself because his favorite sports team had lost. I didn’t know how to tell him, how to break it to him that I was going to have a baby, that we were going to be parents. I stood in the kitchen doorway and time stopped and I took a breath. One, two, one, two. And then I told him.

I could feel the arrow, cutting through me, through my heart, through hers. I couldn’t stop the feeling, the pain, the image of my baby’s wounded heart. I had already named her. She was Angela. She would be my angel, my guardian, my love, my life. She would be mine and I would be hers and we would be each other’s. If only I could hold her and tell her I loved her. If only I could just whisper into her little ears, kiss her pale lips, stroke her tiny head, feel her cheeks against my own. If only I had the courage to cancel that days’ appointment. If only I had the courage to be a mother.

After the dreadful appointment, after it was all over, after my whole body was torn to pieces, I came home. I wasn’t myself anymore. I didn’t have a soul. Or a beating heart. I was reduced down to molecules and no one could put me back together. That night I dreamt about a baby girl whose name was Angela, whose heart was cut open, blood pouring out, spreading out, leaking through her cradle. Then I saw myself holding her and hugging her and whispering into her ears that I loved her.

Then I woke up with a scream. And I remembered that Angela was gone and that I was not a mother.

Maybe it was his father who didn’t believe in him. Maybe it was his father who didn’t accept him the way he was. Maybe it was his father who wanted more from his only son. He had high expectations for his son. If his father had believed in him, in what he did, he would have been a different man today. He might be have been a happier man, a more confident man. He might have been.

A father is an important figure in a man’s life. Boys look up to their fathers. They learn. They learn how to be a man, how to be strong, how to be great. The son and the father go fishing together. They walk side by side and look into each other’s eyes and love each other that way, quietly, silently.

But some little boys get rejected. They never gain Daddy’s approval, his earnest respect, his acceptance. And they never learn to speak, to talk about it. They let it go. The little boy grows up, remembering that his father didn’t praise or extol him, that his father didn’t pay enough attention, that his father didn’t declare his approval for the man he’d become.

He is a man today, that little boy of eight. He doesn’t talk to his father a lot. They are on their own, living their separate lives. And I wonder if he’ll ever know how great he is, how extraordinary, how special. I wonder if he’ll talk to his father. I wonder.