Kindred Spirits

Kim looked at him in the ambient lighting, over the rim of her wineglass. Sam’s lips parted, slightly, as he arched his neck to emit a sound the others would recognize as laughter. But then, they had probably never actually heard him laugh. How were they to know that the sound they heard was nothing more than a calculated response, meant to endear, to draw close, to inspire comfort; a social necessity practiced by a man dependent on their goodwill for his livelihood, and, thus, his sense of self?
She turned away, noticing the pained expression on a waiter’s face as a demanding diner thrust a wineglass in his direction; soiling white linen before dripping, sanguinely, on the young man’s carefully polished shoes.
He used to laugh. They used to laugh. They used to laugh all the time. She remembered the rumble of his Firebird as he pulled up outside her dorm room, and the way it reverberated in her chest before her heart jumped. She ran for the window, parting the blinds with one hand, while placing the other over her chest to still it. Minutes felt like hours, as she waited for him to emerge. She had memorized each movement he would make, and never tired of watching, as he slung first one, and then the other denim- covered leg behind the yawning car door. As he stood, he turned, taking a quick survey of the parking lot. She used to wonder what he was looking for. Apparently satisfied with his surroundings, he ran one hand through his stylishly shaggy, brown hair as he shoved the door shut with the other. His keys were tossed, just once, into the air in front of him, before he pocketed them, taking the curb with a slight jump, before falling into his usual long strides on the way to her door.

He had convinced her, once again, to skip class for a day at the lake. And, as he neared the door, she left the window and hurriedly gathered her carefully packed bag and a sweater she would need after the sun had fallen. She wouldn’t be back until long after sunset.
She felt Carmen’s fingers on her elbow, breaking her reverie.
“Tell me!”, was all she said.
Kim looked down at the manicure on her arm before looking up at her friend, in question.
“What?”
“You should see the look on your face!” Carmen whispered behind a carefully painted smirk. “Who is he?”
Several conflicting thoughts bounced around inside Kim’s head as she struggled to form an acceptable answer. It wasn’t lost on her that Carmen assumed her preoccupation was with a man other than her husband. She realized, too, that her friend’s attitude was one of acceptance, even delight.
“No…”, she managed as she wondered if her friend was hoping for an opportunity to share her own indiscretions. “I mean…” She stopped, as a linen-swaddled wine bottle split the two women, and raised a grateful smile to the pouring waiter.
Hoping to avoid further conversation with Carmen, she looked across the table at Sam, wishing as she did, that he would feel her gaze, and something more. She studied his face as he inclined his head slightly in the direction of the man sitting beside him. A frown crossed his features as his unseeing eyes studied a spot in the center of the china-strewn table. She willed him to look at her; to see her, to remember the times before she was a necessary business accessory, an ornament. His mouth formed slow, thoughtful words that distance prevented her from hearing, and she turned her gaze to the other man. His eyes, over the slight curve of a knowing smile, bore into hers before moving lower. She instinctively brought one perfectly manicured hand to her neckline, grazing, with one fingernail, the diamond pendant Sam had presented her on their tenth anniversary, and scanned the group, wondering which of the impeccably accessorized women was his wife; her kindred spirit.

My Halloween Dream Date with Michael Phelps

Carson groaned silently, as yet another unobservant party-goer stepped on her toes, while he, and one of at least twelve would-be Playboy bunnies in attendance, searched for salacious privacy.

Inwardly she snarled, “This corner is taken, buddy!”

Outwardly she expelled the breath she had been holding in anticipation of having her foot stomped upon, again, and gave them a weak smile before she shrank back against the wall.

“Oh, come on, Carson, it’ll be fun!”

Lilly’s litany played as a round, sung in a sing-song voice, inside her head. And where was Lilly now? Lilly was where she always was, in the center of a large crowd of costumed admirers, or sharing gossip behind Jackie O’s white, kid gloves with a friend who had done a pretty good job of impersonating Amy Winehouse, complete with beehive.

Hoping not to appear desperate, she surreptitiously scanned the colorful crowd for her friend’s baby-blue, pillbox hat. There were at least ten Barack Obamas in the mix. Peyton Manning was shooting darts with Pink, and several members of the Fantastic Four had challenged The Justice League to an inebriated limbo contest that threatened to knock an appropriately oblivious Paris Hilton right off her five inch stilettos, and into a bowl of guacamole. Just as she caught sight her friend, Captain Jack Black blocked her vision momentarily in a flurry of ruffles and satin, and as she withdrew her sensible pumps as far under the chair as she could get them, she felt cold moisture begin to spread on her polyester covered leg.

“Dammit!”, she cried before she could stop herself ,as she jumped from her chair while self-consciously pulling down the jacket of Hillary’s sensible pant suit. Jack turned and studied her for a moment before laughing in true pirate style, and maneuvering Lindsey Lohan away from the mess. Looking down, she could see the stain was spreading, and judging by the color, pirates fancied imports. Lilly was, now, nowhere to be seen.

She started out into the crowd in the direction of the bathroom and cold water to stymie the stain. She kept her head down, in hopes no one would notice her, while knowing she really needn’t bother. She had been invisible from the moment she entered the room. Despite what she had judged to be a clever costume choice, no one had connected her drab blonde hairstyle and polyester pantsuit with a former presidential candidate. The few interested looks turned her way were questioning, at best.

“Hey!”, a voice she recognized cried out, just before she slammed into Michael Phelps’ gold-medal bedecked chest. Thickly applied pancake makeup smeared against bare skin as she lost her footing and fell further into the voice.

“Owwww!”, he howled, and she realized that the heel of her shoe must have grazed a toe just before becoming entangled in his flip-flop.

Two hands came up under the armpits of her misshapen suit jacket, lifting her off of his feet and, placing her, unceremoniously, back onto the floor in front of him.

“What gives, Carson?”, T.J.’s handsome face lost nothing to anger.

“I…I’m sorry, T.J. I didn’t see you.”, was all she could manage before the tears came to remove the rest of her hard work.

She knew he was saying something in an effort to make her feel better, but she couldn’t make out the words over the sound of her sobs. She felt his arms around her shoulders, and became aware that they were walking, but horror at the thought of many hundreds of pairs of creatively made-up eyes staring at her, in disgust, buoyed the flood of tears, forcing her to keep her head buried in Phelps’ side.

A blast of cold air told her they had left the party, and as she looked up, her hands went immediately to her face, in a fruitless effort to repair the damage. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed T.J. jumping up and down in place, in an effort to conjure some warmth against the chill of night air.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Continuing dry sobs placed unneeded breaths between her words.

“No, it’s ok…Uh…I’ve got a jacket in the car…Come on!”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her, stumbling, through the gravel parking lot. She stood, silent, as he aimed his key fob, before removing his sweats from the trunk

Walking to the far side of the car, he turned his back before pulling them on and then turned with a single clap of his hands, presenting her with “Property of University of Georgia Football”.

“Ok! So you want to go home!” It was said as a statement.

“Um, I…” she started, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked out across the parking lot at nothing in particular, wishing she could disappear.

“No! It’s ok! I’ve got an exam tomorrow, anyway. Get in the car!” He didn’t ask questions. He made statements and gave orders. He was used to getting what he wanted. Her feet moved before she made a decision, and as he clicked the locks open, her hand was on the door latch.

She slid, silent, into the passenger’s seat without uncrossing her arms. Two doors slammed as the engine roared to life, and T.J. carelessly threw Michael’s medals into the backseat. Settling himself against leather, he placed both hands on the steering wheel, and leaned in her direction.

“Alright, Carson. I’ve had a little to drink. You know that right? I mean, I’m not drunk, but, I’m ok, you know? I’m feeling ok.”

She looked at his shadowy features, and wondered how she came to be there. Had he ever spoken to her before? Well, maybe…when they were toddlers, when their mothers’ scheduling of play-dates placed them together on the playground while they, the mothers, sat closely, exchanging stories of women who were not there.

Did he ever cross her path in high school? Did football players have anything in common with accounting majors?

“Yeah…yeah, ok.”, was all she managed, as she smoothed Hillary’s jacket and wedged both unmanicured hands between her thighs.

One long arm stretched between the bucket seats, as T.J. maneuvered the car into reverse. She squirmed at the thought of that arm around her shoulders. Had it been? Had everyone seen? What had they thought? Had SHE seen?

The car lurched forward against loudly crunching gravel, as T.J. barely missed grazing the halogen head-lights of an oncoming pickup truck. Lowering his window, he stopped, and hung his head out to meet the other driver.

“Hey, bro, you leavin’ already?”, T.J.’s voice mixed with laughter as he thrust his arm towards his friend’s already outstretched palm.

“Who’s that?”, Jerry and his companion, Sarah Palin, craned their necks to see inside the lower car.

More laughter accompanied his “See ya, bro!”, as T.J. good naturedly slapped his friend’s hand, again, before withdrawing it to turn up the dial on the stereo, as the car lurched forward again, sending up a wake of randomly shaped gravel.

“Jerry’s a good guy, you know?”, he yelled, as they turned onto the two-lane blacktop that would take her home.

There were lights, lots of them, in varying colors, and noises she knew only from television crime dramas; the crackle of two-way radios, passing traffic, sirens, voices giving orders, and moans, incoherent moans in a familiar-sounding voice.

“Hey! I’ve got an ID!” The voice, excited and unfamiliar, was accompanied by the sound of clanking medals…

Triple Grande 140 Degree No Foam Cinnamon Dolce Latte With Caramel On The Whip

(In honor of my baby sister’s birthday, today. I love you, sweetie!)

The coffee shop is packed, as usual.
I shake the wind out of my overcoat as I scan the throng around the counter for the end of the line.
Spiky-haired, strategically pierced baristas dart back and forth behind pastry-filled glass in a symphony of efficiency, delivering my order in quick time.
Hurriedly stowing my change in the pocket of my coat, I pivot carefully to avoid sloshing, and silently thrill at the sight of an empty black tabletop just a couple of feet away. Sliding sideways between a pair of large men waiting to add cream and sugar, I reach the table, coming face to face with another equally thrilled patron. Our faces fall, in tandem.
“Oh, that’s ok, you take it.”, I offer, turning slightly.
He hesitates just a moment before setting his cup on the black lacquered surface. I hear the rustling of fabrics as I begin a new search.
“There are three chairs…” he offers, removing his coat to drape it over the back of one of them.
I look down at them. He is right. There are three.
I raise an appreciative smile to his statement of the obvious before placing my cup across from his.
“Thank you.”
I move the chair slightly to ensure I am out of the way of those at the next table, which is only inches away and fully occupied, before sitting. My overcoat parts as I cross my legs and bend to reach into the bag I placed at my feet. I sip as I read my list, doing a mental tally of the time required to complete my day.
In my periphery, the man continues to stand and though I’m not looking at him, I am aware that he is removing something sweet and gooey from a small, white paper bag. He sits the pastry, still nestled inside it’s wax paper sheath, in the center of the table.
A tug of my dangling foot draws my attention to the fact that the heel of my shoe is entangled in a swath of brightly colored fabric fashioned into a skirt and worn by a large woman attempting to squeeze between the tables. I grab for my shoe as she turns with a frown.
“Sorry”, I mutter sheepishly.
She reaches to loosen herself, gracing me with a smile.
“Oh, that’s ok, honey. This place is a zoo!”
“Join us?” It is the man speaking.
She looks around the crowded shop for just a moment before sighing, heavily.
“Well, sure. Why not?” Removing her coat requires more space than is available and I struggle to hide my amusement as a button from her sleeve slides into another patron’s hair and, as she turns to apologize, her ample hips threaten to upset our table.
“There!” She heaves a sigh as she swallows a chair.
We sip quietly.
“It’s my birthday.” The man, again.
“Really? Well, isn’t that nice!” The woman’s voice is louder.
Three pairs of stranger’s eyes meet at the pastry-filled center of the table.
“Anyone for cake?” he asks.
My eyes meet his in surprise, before seeking hers in question.
“Just a minute, honey.” The table sways, again, as the woman maneuvers to retrieve her large handbag. “My husband used to say I carried everything but the kitchen sink in this thing. Give me a second.”
An unsuspecting passer-by catches an elbow to the back as she rifles through the bag, industriously.
“There!”, she says again as she produces a single yellow birthday candle from the morass. Reaching for her napkin, she slides it over the wax before burying the tip of the candle into his pastry.

I steal a glance at the man whose face, again, mirrors mine, with large eyes, and the slightly parted lips of wonder.
The woman slings her gaze upon both of us in one movement before laughing, merrily.
“It’s your birthday, honey! Make a wish!”