She pushed away from the table.
Half-eaten, she left it on the plate,
and, reaching the sidewalk, she threw up her hand.
Category: Disappointment
He Said, She Said
He doesn’t so much sit as drape a chair; filling it with athletic grace. His head lies cradled in the receiver as he drags one sturdy hand through a day’s growth. His eyes squint, unseeing, as his own mortality supersedes the flashing image on the other side of the room.
“Have you thought about marriage?”
I push my hair behind my ear as I cross, hurriedly, into the next room. A familiar irony fills me.
My hand holds the same telephone, in the same room, in the same chair. My daughter’s voice comes through the receiver, and, as my hand parts my hair, I ask my question.
“Is this what you really want?”
Cold
Diamond Cutter
Wedging herself onto the end of a thickly shellacked wooden bench, she sat amongst a group of waiters. Music pumped from strategically placed speakers over her head, as she placed her feet out of range of the oblivious, polo-shirted man standing with his back to her. He laughed, gesturing with his drink, to the delight of his date.
She leaned forward slightly, at the approach of a car, straining to take measure of its occupant. An older man, and the woman riding the passenger seat, meant nothing to her.
Oppressive July heat fell in droplets around her, pasting her carefully chosen cotton tee-shirt to her body. She stretched it towards the laughing man in hopes of a stray, drying breeze.
A garbled voice, calling names, replaced the music. An elderly couple beside her took their cue, barely escaping the flying elbow of the ebullient man. His date’s face quickly flashed from flirtatious delight to horror. Harnessing his elbows, she pulled him forward.
And the music ensued. A family of five occupied the opposite bench. Mother, her face colored by a mixture of fatigue and gratitude, jostled her youngest to distraction, while Father palmed a beer, protectively.
Several sets of legs to her left, parted, revealing him.
She hadn’t seen as much as a picture, but she knew.
His face split, revealing a set of uneven, but well-cared for teeth. The collar of his pastel- hued shirt parted graciously, admitting jet black curls. There was a shine to his hair.
He squeezed his generous frame into the space beside her, leaning against the wall before expelling the air he’d been holding.
“Hey…” The word came on the breath of his sigh, and around a grin that would remain, throughout the evening.
The speakers crackled, again, as his name was called and he took her hand. The niceties had finished.
Months of practice fueled their conversation. She studied the way his generous hand wrapped around a steak knife, and, as he chewed with upturned lips, she marveled at his pleasure.
He paid with plastic as she considered her options.
The interior of his truck spoke to her. She flashed on that first drive with her father. She felt the plastic knob of a gear shift in her hand as she maneuvered the weather-beaten Ford F-150 out of the parking lot, and onto the roadway; setting it up on two wheels. And, her father; his white-knuckled hands gripping cracked vinyl, as he screamed…
“You made me pee my pants!”
Their first uncomfortable silence came as he settled himself against the nylon-covered bench seat. Questions, she was hesitant to answer, hung in the air, buoyed by vibrations emitted from a factory-installed radio. Windows were lowered, and she re-adjusted her shirt.
She felt him before she saw him. He face hovered above hers, eager to deliver what would be the first of many sloppy, wet kisses which would improve with translation, over time. The cadence of his garlic-tinged breath filled the air around them, and, her decision was made, as his hands grasped the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head before the slammming of a nearby car door reminded her they were still in the parking lot.
Time and circumstance placed them together, allowing them every other weekend. For two years, at no small expense, he rented the same set of rooms in a local concrete-encased block of suites. Lamp-light reflected off chrome appliances in the tiny kitchenette; spawning in her, domestic fantasies.
Sated fatigue colored his voice as he drew up the sheet, turning his back.
“There’s something in your drawer…”
Delight propelled her from the bed. A curled hand carried the sheet with her.
He hadn’t bothered to wrap it, and it didn’t matter. Two pewter-toned Tahitian pearls sat, ensconced in tiny diamonds, at either end of a platinum ring which slid easily about her wrist. She raised her arm; twisting the facets in admiration.
And, he began to jump. Both hands clutched the polyester-infiltrated fabric surrounding her, as 200+ pounds pummeled a well-used mattress. She watched, integrating the juvenile glee on his Sicilian-hued face with the incongruously violent swing of his penis. Nothing in her experience could make this right.
Roses arrived. Mounds of them, in varying colors, filled vases on tables throughout her home, only to be replaced by fresh bouquets the next day.
And jewelry; rubies protected by diamonds, and a pendant supporting a single, large, perfect stone.
They talked, hesitant to disturb the stillness of a southern spring night, while she fingered his gift. And, as he lifted her hair to cinch the clasp, he assured her…”No strings…”
He hadn’t tried to hide. As they approached her driveway, his Toyota sat, valiantly, next to her Ford. She whispered her “Goodnight”, before stumbling into the darkened living room.
Straining, she recognized his form, filling the center of her second-hand sofa. Neither spoke. She straddled him, and weeks later, he would invoke the scent of the other man. But, for now…tonight, it didn’t matter.
“I could’ve bought a bedroom suite for my daughter with that money!”
Rubies, and diamonds, and dreams, crunched against concrete under her running shoes before she turned, and mounting the steps, jogged to the door; closing it behind her.
Washed Ashore
Born into a family of blondes, she stood, proud and straight against a hand-drawn measuring stick on the wall. Chestnut ringlets danced about a face punctuated by chocolate brown eyes mirroring the mischievousness in her smile.
I fell in love at first sight.
I was an adult before I realized how alike we were; how her path had intersected mine too many times, and how those shared experiences had built a bond of belonging.
She was rebellious.
She liked bad boys.
She led with her heart.
Life, age, children, and too many days spent on uncharted waters brought both us to shore, in different places.
And, I miss her.
Walk Away
His head, ensconced as it was, inside his man’s hands, gleamed, inviting her to study its irregular surface, an assortment of irregularly shaped freckles, and a day’s growth. She remembered how it felt; and his scent.
“I don’t get it.” He shuffled his running shoes. “I just don’t get it.”
“Of course you do!” She leaned across the table, stretching her arms the width.
“It’s just so much bullshit…”
He straightened and reached for a cigarette, keeping his eyes lowered.
“Then walk away….just walk away!”
“How do you do that? Walk away…” He paused to suck on his cigarette. “How do you just walk away?”
And then, “I wish I was more like you…”
The words swam between them.
She felt them on her eyes, before she stood,
and, walked away.
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
The Journey
I am discriminating. I can be hard to please. I am slow to trust, as years of failed promises have left me skeptical. I have to remind myself, sometimes, to see the light hiding behind the darker surface. I tend to set very high standards for those who would court my trust. I want answers, answers that make sense, and I do my homework.
The last two presidential elections were, for me, at best, painful, and, at worst, devastating. In my opinion, George W. Bush’s shortcomings are plain for anyone to see, and his cabinet, nothing less than dangerous. Sadly, the Democratic Party failed to offer up a reasonable alternative, and though I voted for the man I considered the one less dangerous, I did so half-heartedly, at best. My reticence, however, did nothing to appease my disappointment and embarrassment in our electorate.
The 2004 election was particularly hard to swallow. John Kerry was not an exciting, or even hopeful choice, but the alternative was unthinkable. Our country had been in free-fall for four years and every misstep I had ever imagined, combined with those no one could ever have foreseen, to create a recipe for disaster; and still, many eagerly vied for a place at the table.
I remember dark hours immediately following the election, and the utter hopelessness filling those days. I remember sleepless nights punctuated by tears of frustration, and I remember my decision. In the fall of 2004, after America spoke, I made the decision to disconnect. I turned off my television and changed my pre-sets. Top-forty radio, instead of National Public Radio, now fueled my commute. Novels replaced the newspaper at lunch, and a click to my homepage now revealed carefully crafted, voluminous lines of internet jokes, sent to me by my former mother-in-law. Life lessons, and the accompanying character traits, had taught me how to insulate; to protect.
As you might expect, I was slow to board, as our most current election geared up…
Rudy Giuliani, and his handling of one of the most traumatic events in American history, warranted a second look. Arrogance killed his candidacy, early on.
Mitt Romney showed promise. As a businessman, he had shown remarkable financial acumen, and even two years ago, as those in the know began to scrawl upon the wall, I could see the merits of that trait. Honor, though, and party loyalty prevailed, as he threw in the towel in order to increase the chances of his party rival.
And, then there were three…
In 2004, I pinned my hopes on one John McCain, still, at that time, a true maverick. Karl Rove had other plans. Most of us easily saw through the allegations of impropriety surrounding the ethnicity of McCain’s daughter, completely unaware of backroom negotiations which would ensure McCain’s exit, leaving Mr. Rove’s candidate alone on the Republican ticket. In my despair, I looked forward to 2008, when “Maverick” could ride, again.
The face was the same; the voice familiar. The rhetoric, however, markedly changed. Need had removed the teeth from his message, and the 2008 incarnation of John McCain in no way resembled the man I once admired. Desperately, I turned to the other side of the aisle…
A feminist at heart, I really wanted to support Hillary. Admittedly, her handling of her husband’s repeated infidelities had left a sour taste in my mouth, but it was her shrill rhetoric that provided a barrier I could not jump. I listened, eagerly, for meaningful words that would invoke confidence, or even hope, and heard, instead, the cry of a fish-monger’s wife. I was not unhappy to see the odds piling against her.
The very idea that a man named “Barack Hussien Obama” would entertain the notion of being elected president of a country wrought with fear labeled “Muslim”, struck me as ludicrous; and I said so, to anyone who would listen. But, as the months ticked by, and his opponents became less and less desirable, I was forced to take a second look.
During this time, a good friend smilingly presented me with an Obama bumper sticker. He didn’t insist; he offered, through a face bright with hope. Feeling bereft of alternative, I accepted the offering, placing it in my carry-all. It rode there, under a succession of lunches, for several weeks, until a bright Saturday morning several weeks ago.
I accompanies me, now, on my commute, as it rides my back right bumper, and, today, the sight of it inspires pride in our journey.
An Intangible Difference
“No other national election has evoked this kind of emotion.”
As a form of explanation, in the heat of the moment, during a discussion of politics, these words rose to the surface, and sat on my tongue, while I considered their veracity. My mind ticked through previous elections. Images grossly akin to Halloween masks, strolled across my mind’s eye; Reagan, Carter, Ford, Clinton, Bush I and II, and I realized I had felt passion for my candidate during each of these contests, as well. The words remain unsaid. And, still, I consider them…and have come believe the words to be true in an intangibly unsettling way.
In years past, my choice of candidate was usually accompanied by a sure feeling of being “right”. As I considered the men running for President, the decision was a simple one, based on my beliefs and life experience.
“Do you want what’s hiding behind curtain “A” or curtain “B”?” Monty Hall’s face leered under a battered fedora as he spun a shiny black cane.
“Curtain “A”!” My voice rang true with the force of my convictions.
“Is that your final answer?” The question came in the form of endless, expensively produced commercials touting the merits of the one not chosen.
“Yes! That is my final answer!” And it was.
This time around, when asked the question, I find my voice wavering as my eyes search a distant point in the room, and my chest fills with a need for hope. And, therein, lies the difference.
The need for hope; not a full-blown, fist-clenching, flag-waving hope, but a need for hope. A look out the yawning door of an airplane, just before the jump, with the sincere desire that the parachute will function when called upon. That first tentative, pitch-black step away from the side of the bed towards the spot on the carpet where the dog might be sleeping. The catch of breath, when the numbers are called, as the ticket shakes inside a needy hand. The look on the face of one beaten down, afraid to trust an outstretched hand.
As my octogenarian friend frequently laments, “I’ve never seen things this bad.”, I realize it’s no wonder so many of us are uncertain. Nothing in our life experience has prepared us for our current condition, and our beliefs have been challenged by almost a decade of half-truths and outright lies told by those in whom we were forced to rely. We are the ones beaten down, afraid to trust.
On Tuesday, I will stand in line for hours, with hundreds of others in search of hope, and the mere presence of the crowd, as I scan it, will invoke these words:
“In God We Trust.” 
If
“You haven’t cared in over three years….”
The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.
A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow, while a corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.
As I rise, I’m vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before I spit, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.” And, as I turn to walk away, fluttering candlelight accents ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.
If only, I could have been a little quieter…
If only, I didn’t have an opinion…
If I could hide my feelings…
If I could be a little less intelligent…
If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.
If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.
Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.
If I could have done that…
But, I couldn’t.
And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.
And now, even that, is not enough…
>If
>
“You haven’t cared in over three years….”
The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.
A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow. A corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.
Rising, I am vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before spitting, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.” As I turn to walk away, candlelight flutters across ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.
If only I could have been a little quieter…
If only I didn’t have an opinion…
If I could hide my feelings…
If I could be a little less intelligent…
If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.
If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.
Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.
If I could have done that…
But, I couldn’t.
And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.
And now, even that, is not enough…
Are We There Yet? 
