The before and after effects of January 31st.

     When I sat beside him, he'd clap too loud, and I calmed him down. I'd hold his hands together until they were silent, and even got butterflies in my stomach when he stopped at once, wondering if with even the smallest, most insignificant touch of my hands, he felt those stupid butterflies, too. It didn't matter where we were--the Art Gala on campus, a poetry reading downtown, or cuddled up next to one another, watching a movie--he was a pinball, I, the player, his containment. Occasionally, I would submit, letting him play the games. In auditoriums, the city library, or anywhere else we were supposed to sit still and be quiet, we would shamelessly flirt, the way boys and girls do. We kicked back and forth in a series of leg banter, and I would mess up his perfectly quaffed hair a number of times. His reflexive reaction to that bit was quick and slightly pathetic, which massively encouraged me. Most of the time, though, he was a nightmare of wiggles to sit beside, and during a large majority of whichever event we attended, I pleaded with him to keep still. I was irritated when he'd fidget, and he knew that. He would look over to me with that ridiculously personable smile, the one that said, "Just remember how adorable I sometimes am", and after that, I would. I would remember. I knew other people didn't see it in him, and I even knew why. He was a tornado of emotions, couldn't keep focus on serious matters for too long, and was a big, obnoxious box of chatter. I was aware of it all, and still didn't shy away. I was good, and a driving force that he'd told me he needed to stabilize him. I couldn't be scared of any of those things because he needed me, which was a problem, considering I didn't need him in the least. However, all of that still didn't change the fact that even when he drove me to my wit's end, I was on his side. He had quirks that charmed me. Like, the way we'd argue the architectural differences that made The Vatican a Baroque phenomenon, rather than one of the High Renaissance. I hated that I couldn't change his mind even though I was right, but loved the way he fired me up. He was an impetuous blend of chaos that I couldn't restrain, and that's what I love the most about him. Present tense.

...

     The other day, I sat next to him at a Chorale concert put on by the Arts College. He fell asleep within the first twenty minutes. No jittering legs, no whispers in my ear. Just silence from the seat next to mine. I looked over to see him curled up, arms crossed tight across his chest, wool coat still buttoned to the top. I wanted to wake him up, wanted to play back and forth in the dumb, annoying way that had become so normal. Instead, I watched the way his head nodded, hurt that he didn't even think to rest it on my shoulder. Things were different now. Got it.
     The non-touching, non-flirting clause that we'd penciled into our brains felt bizarre, but was a stipulation of the friendship we'd both agreed needed boundaries. Feelings were one-sided. Well, they were one-and-a-half sided, which was something I was uncomfortable with from the beginning. Then again, the thought of my own feelings developing had never been a threat that had even entered my mind until I made the stupid decision to be myself, you know. The one that forced me to be honest. I hate myself for that. I hate honesty. Sometimes, I just wish I could be like "Lie to me!" and then everything would turn out the way it should. But that's not exactly the way it works. And why would we want that in the first place? Do we want to be loved and adored because it holds weight in a series of mundane activity, or do we want it all because we care about the other person? Do we care about every aspect of the other side, whether they drive us to insanity? Or, do we only care about them when we have control over the way they lie in our arms? I've yet to find a solid answer for that one. Which probably explains why I am still writing this series. Ha! Series. That makes this whole thing sound like you all actually care. Maybe you do, maybe you don't.

Spoiler alert: I do. I still care.

We called him Sparkles, later shortening it to Sparks, because that's exactly the way he was.

     On December eighth, I was invited to my friend, Cait's Christmas party. I bought one of those turtlenecks with festive clipart and wore it under a black dress my mother had given me in high school. I paired the ensemble with white tights, and black Mary Janes. I was going for a classy-but-still-tacky-looking '90s kid. I tried to pin a ridiculous red bow up in my bun, but decided against it, as it made me look even younger than I already did. 

     She said he would be there, the boy I had had a massive crush on from day one of the semester. I remember the first time he introduced himself to the class. I knew his name from the beginning, and maybe that was creepy, but it was true. And he would never have to know that, so what did it matter, anyway?

     I told her I would bake cupcakes or cookies or some other domestic thing girls bring to a holiday party, but eventually, the "real me" took over, and I shamefully gave into those sugary, thousand-calorie, frosted cookies from the grocery store, which is a thing the "real me" had a tendency of doing. I remember kicking the door open with my foot, making somewhat of a noisy entrance, and almost dropping the plate in my hands. As I brushed off the embarrassment, I was greeted warmly.

     "So glad you're here!" my curly-haired, adorable red head friend, Cait, dressed in her annual Christmas party gold-trimmed sweater, welcomed me into the living room with open arms. We'd been friends since the summer before our Freshman year, when I cyber-stalked her and found out we were basically the same person. As I came in the door, I noticed a tall, well dressed boy sitting on the couch. His Christmas sweater was a grey cardigan, and immediately, I was filled with the regret of taking my own party attire so literally. The white tights I wore were absurd, but I was grateful for the judgement call that left the red bow on my bathroom counter.

     There were a plethora of people whom I didn't know, though I'd been around them at previous events hosted by Cait. They were all cohorts of our university's music department and most of the time, I had no idea what any of them were talking about, as conversation usually revolved around decrescendos and atonal chord value. Cait and her friends were musical geniuses, studying tonal patterns in their vocal performance emphases. The only thing I had to contribute was the fact that I'd been in piano lessons, basically since the day I was born and onward until high school, but hated them so much that I've since blocked out all of the musical knowledge that I must have obtained. I crossed the room, this time, quietly, and set my dishonest store-bought goods on the kitchen table. When I returned, my roommate, Cassandra, whom I'd brought along with me, sat on the floor. She often went by Sam, a nickname we made up early in our friendship as we were harping on the fact that Cassandra was way too long of a name. I sat next to her. 

     "Do you see that boy?" I motioned with my eyes, to the couch where he sat.

     "The one with the wide-rimmed glasses?" she whispered, mid celery bite. It was interesting, the way she'd identified him. Didn't I always seem to be referring to "the one with the wide-rimmed glasses"?

     "Yeah," I answered, "that's the one I've told you about," her eyes widened. 

     "He's wearing a plaid shirt," she smiled. I was starting to think I was becoming predictable. 

     "Don't they all, though?" we laughed. 

     "He is super-cute fashion." For some reason, instead of just saying, 'He dresses nicely', Sam always insisted on using this tagline to describe the boys I was interested in. I never understood why. It was absolutely against every rule of grammar I'd ever known, but she wouldn't have realized. She was in her fourth year of school, about to graduate in the accounting program. "Why on Earth are you over here, then?" she asked, "Go on. Talk to him!"

     "I can't! I don't know him!" 

     "Court," she began, "you know his name." It was true, I did. I knew his name, and a few basic things about him, though we'd never spoken a word. I was nosy that way. "Go." I stood up, and inched closer to the couch, every step further encouraging a shake in my legs. I tried not to make direct eye contact, but was interrupted in so doing. 

     "I know you. You look familiar. Who are you?" he looked up, motioning for me to sit beside him. Immediately, I was intimidated. 

     "No," I started, "I don't think so." I avoided eye contact again, though I did sit down. 

     "Yeah. I see you all over campus. I know you, I just don't know how." 

     "Hm..." I breathed, strategically, figuring out my next move, "Well, I don't know who you are." Oh, that's great, Courtney. Lie. 

     "Darrin's class. I do know you!" Now, I just felt like a jerk. 

     "Oh, you're in that class?" Pathetic. 

     "Yeah! How do you not know that?" 

     "I sit in the back. I never pay attention to anyone," it was a bold-faced lie, but knowing him now, hearing it must have stung. He was the star. He shouted obscure answers that no one in a class of over fifty knew. Every exam, he was top of the class. One would have had to skip every day to miss that he was in it. Of course I knew who he was. "Also, I'm late. Pretty much every single day," I said, looking down, slightly embarrassed.

     "Yeah, I know," my eyes raised to meet his, "I sit in the front. You walk past me. I remember you. Red lipstick. You always look ridiculously put together. I've noticed that about you." No one had ever said anything like that to me before. I wasn't the kind of girl who walked into a room inciting a firework show in the minds of my male counterparts. I was just perpetually late, and no one had ever cared about that before.

     "Oh, I don't know about that. I'm sort of a mess. All of the time." 

     "Well, you certainly don't look like one." I smiled a small, dumb smile, and probably blushed. I do that a lot, and sometimes people comment on it. That is something I'll never understand. 

     The rest of the night, we talked about a lot of different things: how he wants to be an Art History teacher, how he lived in New York for a while, his obsession with horses and his dog. I watched his interaction with Cassie and Cait, comparing it with the way he treated me. (Girls do this, you know. Even though they probably won't admit to doing it, they do.) Occasionally, he'd put his hand on my knee, or interrupted someone else to ask me a question. He was clean cut, Jude-Law-good-looking, and his hair had a way about it that made me think of Humphrey Bogart in Casa Blanca, which upsets me more now than it ever did before. Mostly because I am increasingly aware with every viewing of the movie that Rick and Ilsa will never run away together at the end, and that speaks volumes with stinging resonance in my own story. 

(More to come. I've still got a lot in my brain.) (Sorry if you hate me for this,) (but this is still my blog.)

My Skinny, Blue Genes. Part I.

Please bear with me as I write my life away for the next few days. The only way I can ever get things out of my head is by writing them down. Hence, this entire blog. But mostly, just these next few posts. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed experiencing it them.

     The painting on the wall tilted slightly to the left. I paused in the hall for a minute, cocked my head, and stared. My eyes focused in on the colors. Bright, vibrant yellows tiptoed over dark grey and navy blue, though at the bottom of the canvas, the dull pigment overtook the warm rush of gold . I stared harder, remembering how the frame of the painting had become so askew. I closed my eyes, tensing my fists until they went numb.

     It was Thursday, and it was cold. I usually liked the cold, though, that tolerance faded when the heater in my beat up SUV died, suddenly. We took his car most places because he refused to let me drive mine until it was fixed. Most days, the inside felt like an icebox. I appreciated his chivalry when it came to things like that, but was pleased when the heat had been restored, and I was in the driver's seat again. I had less boring taste in music, and whoever drove the car got to DJ. That was the rule.
    We stopped at a gas station south of town. I lifted the nozzle and began to fuel the tank. Ten dollars, twenty dollars, thirty, forty... stopping at fifty-four with a thud, I twisted the cap back on and climbed into the seat, turning my face to look at him.
     "What?" he asked, shifting his gaze from the window to me. I reached for the chord to connect my iPod, "Oh, no," he begged, "none of that girly stuff you like." I smiled. He threw his head back in a silent fit.
     "Oh, stop. You're going to love it," I pushed the plug in and cranked the car into drive.
     "I am not so sure about this..." he began, "When you don't respond to my tantrums, it's usually because you're hiding something that you know I won't--" my fingers twisted the nob that regulated sound, and the words of the song flew out of my mouth with familiarity.
     "'There were nights when the wind was so coooooold...'" I gripped the steering wheel for drama. "'and my body froze in bed if I just listened to it right outside the window...'" my voice was loud and obnoxious, and my eyes were on the road. More often, though, they were on him, pulling for a reaction. He sat lifeless in his seat as we drove. Arms crossed, eyes straight ahead. I kept singing, unwilling to lose the music battle. I was tired of submitting to whichever emotionless Black Keys song he'd have played instead. "'There were nights of endless pleasure! It was more than all your lousy loooooove!'" 
     "'BABY, BABY! If I kiss you like this...'" both my jaw and my brow lines lowered. I couldn't believe he knew the words. He turned to me, smiling. "What? You think I don't know this song?" Surprised, I took my hands off the wheel, steered with my knees, and began applauding.
     "That was impressive! You completely threw me off guard."
     "Good. Now, can we change the song?" I blew the speakers louder.
     "I finished crying in the instant that you left! And I can't remember where or when or hooooow!"
     "Okay."

     His head rested on my shoulder, his arm stretched across my waist. We sat on my leather couch, in that pitifully cold basement, watching late night television the way "those people" do. I had come to the conclusion that we were becoming a part of that demographic now. He wore a button down flannel shirt and sleepy eyes. I watched as he tried to keep his eyes open and wide on the screen, but as I stroked back his hair, he drifted a little further into sleep; he drifted further into me. Minutes later, he perked up and migrated to the other end of the sofa, pulling me along with him.
    "Come here," he began, "I know how much you're hating this." I was confused. Mostly because I was doing the complete opposite of hating it. He outstretched his legs and nestled me into the space between the curve of his body and the edge of the cushion. "You hate this couch," he stated. It was true. I'd complained about it practically every night.
     "Yeah, well. It's fine," I laughed. My face settled into the nape of his neck and he held me tight. His arms came together across my back and he brought me in close. It felt like a spot I was familiar with, one I'd known before. The scruff that he'd been working to grow for weeks brushed the side of my face. I reached up, placing my left hand on his cheek and looked up at him. "I don't like scruff," I wiggled, "but I really like it on you." The first kiss on the line of his jaw.
     "You don't?" he looked down.
     "Nope," the second on his chin, "but on you..." his eyes closed again.
     "Only on me?"
     "Yep," third, the soft space below his ear.
     "Oh," he exhaled.
     I thought about my next move, and the way it would change things. I wondered if I should even be the one entertaining the act in my brain. It shouldn't have been my move to make.
     I ran my fingers through his hair, which, I'm sure has become a signature move of mine by now, and the deed was done.  There were fireworks, cliches, and my hair fell out of two elastics, but he did the forehead-kiss-thing, and that was the monumental downfall of us. Or, the people we almost were, rather.

the little girl in the yellow dress.

     "but i'm too little," the little girl frowned.
     "yes, but someday, you'll be just the right size," comforted the mother.
     "how do you know?" the five year old kicked her heels together in an unmistakeable upset.
     "because... i just do." her mother smiled one of those smiles that mothers do, and continued her walk in the fresh produce section.
     "and when i'm big," the girl continued, tracing her mother's footsteps with her own two, small feet buckled in baby janes, "i will wear one, too?"
     "i suppose," mother lifted a head of lettuce to the light above her, examining every inch, but finding herself distracted by a different item. she held the lettuce with her right hand, while a small diamond on her left stole the attention. she stood quiet for a moment, wiggling her finger to catch the light.
     "and what if i don't?" she asked.
     "then i will love you just the same, my cora," mother set the lettuce down carefully, and lowered herself to meet her daughter at eye level, kissing her round cheeks twice. the two of them continued to walk. cora shuffled her feet along the tile, creating scuff marks.
     "and then will i be like you?" she wondered. the mother fell silent, unsure of what to say next, when a tall man with hair combed back in gel, wearing a crisp red tie snuck up behind her.
     "oh, i do hope so," the man remarked, kissing the woman. on the lips. the little girl tilted her head and smiled.
     "and who'll be like you?" the little girl asked. the man straightened his tie, raised an eyebrow to his daughter, and after a moment, whispered in her ear.
     "my darling," he began, "that is entirely up to you," he finished.
     the little girl stood still for a few seconds in her yellow dress. she examined the ruffles at her ankles and ran her fingers over the ribbon in her hair. the father stared at her, feeling as though he were watching the wheels turn in her very mind, proud of the thoughts that had been provoked.
     "well," the little girl said, "i hope that he'll kiss me on the mouth."
    
     the mother and father looked at each other, smirking. the man winked at his wife, and in that moment, the little girl knew she must have been the luckiest girl in the world.

the art of falling, and the trouble with it: an autumn story.

     she had been cold as she left her apartment on temple street. the air was chilled and outspoken; she liked that about autumn mornings. she appreciated the way they refused to apologize for their curtness. autumn was impolite, a trait she had come to love.
     he missed the sun. he caught himself wishing it would return to paint his skin, change his natural pale. he loved the hot pinches that came when he stood still for too long, and ached for the spots he saw in the sky while looking too close.
     she wondered when the leaves would begin their change, basking in the anticipation that came with the changing season. she looked forward to the melting of each snowstorm, sure, and rejoiced in renewed blossoms, too, but there was something silly about the autumn harvest, something that made her come all unglued. the way it didn't last long, but managed to satisfy, somehow, each of her senses at once made her smile. the dying earth and the hope of it resurrecting in just six short months made her fingers tingle. she marveled in all of it, trusting in something bigger than herself. she stood still on her walk, letting the wind play in her hair, taking in the scent of one last summer parade, for she knew its time had come, and this would be its last warm breath until next june.
     he noticed the grass on his way up the stairs. it was coarse and feathered. the small pieces of green were static and hard to come by. he stared, knowing what came with it: cold winds and a sky that knew only grey. he stood unmoving for a moment with all he had, pleading with the sun to stay just a few more sundays. and then, as if bidding a bitter farewell, the ball of light disappeared beyond the clouds, not to be seen by summer until the next solstice hit.
     and then she quit her own still charade and walked into his view.
     she was delicate. she wore a thin, woven sweater of cream yarn. the wind brushed a wave of hair to the side of her face, and with a book pressed to her nose, she crossed the courtyard before him.
     he watched her from three feet behind, examining every step she took. her eyes were intense on the pages of her book, with not the slightest trip in her tread. he particularly adored that.
     "excuse me," he pressed, scaling to her side. her eyes stayed focused on reading.
     "yes?" her reply was sweet like powdered sugar. he caught up further and cleared his throat.
     "do you always walk and read at the same time?" he asked, timidly. this was new for him. he'd not had a shy spell all of his life, though he'd never seen a more interesting girl so pressed into a book, either. he figured it was no coincidence that the two rarities happened on the same day.
     "often," she remarked, still without a flinch.
     "ah," he said, dipping both hands into his pant pockets, "and it has never gotten you into trouble?"
     "trouble?" she flipped the page, "what sort of trouble?"
     "the kind that would have knocked you into me, had i been walking just three feet ahead of you." the woman's eyes met his.
     "oh, no," she shook her head, intriguing him.
     "no?" he wondered.
     "it would have been no trouble at all," she began. he listened intently, "if that had been the case, i would have looked up, apologized, wished you a well morning, and continued on my way," she was abrupt and matter-of-fact--the way autumn had taught her to be. her eyes broke into the book once again when he stopped just before her, halting her, too.
     "well then," he started, "thank goodness you've trained yourself in the art so well, for otherwise, you'd have been gone before i would have had the chance to open my mouth." he spoke softly, his green eyes smiling.
     and for the first time, as she walked with a book to her nose, she fell the way he'd hoped she would.
     ironically in a moment that she'd been standing so still.

i have officially dubbed monday as a writing day. because i'm going to go crazy if i can't write for myself at least one day a week, and my pen needs exercise beyond scholasticism. so, consider monday a day of word clusters and stories. all of them true, though, with small embellishments. because embellishments are additions that make writing pretty.

this is going to be fun.

label: true stories.