It rang but I couldn’t find it. I nearly upended my entire bedroom.
And to make it worse, it wasn’t my phone. It was a strange ring tune.
Musical. But with a hint of menace.
So why would I want to find the damn phone. Much less answer it.
It wasn’t the phone. It was who the phone belonged to. Because the news was not good. And I suspected it was about me.
Or worse: Not about me.

Watching you sleep: this is when you are your most behaved. When you are awake you rail against the world and throw your dry bowl of cornflakes at me and pick your teeth with my favorite hair comb.
You told you me you wanted a divorce last night. Now you have the nerve to sleep there, unconscious, with no conscience, at the moment.
I’m left to shoulder the burden of your asking.
Maybe I’ll have to sleep on it and decide whether I will give you that divorce.
Go ahead. Snore all you want.
I’ll wait.

I smelled the rain and it made me sneeze. So I grabbed for the tissue box. But there were no tissues. So wiped my snot on the front of my shirt.
It was a black Henley, my shirt. People noticed. They also noticed my hair in disarray.
What did soften their grimaces however was my announcement that I was giving everyone the day off. Because our company had made a record deal on that particular Thursdays. But before they were allowed to jump away from their desks, I told them I wanted to buy them drinks.
Their grimaces then returned.

“I don’t know where this is going,” she said to her friend after they’d taken their first sips of their coffees. “All I know is that I’m very happy with him.”
And isn’t that all that mattered? They both wondered as they sipped again. They’d taken a short moment, here in this coffee shop, It was important the two friends to realize to take moments like these to really let wonderful things sink in. Unlike when bad things happened. Which didn’t need any help sinking in.

Out of the corner of the room, next to the hors d’oeuvres, she walked up to me.
I had planned on walking up to her. She beat me to the punch. Actually, she was carrying two punches–red, liquor-ridden drinks–one for her, and one for me.
I accepted the punch and said “Cheers.”
We clinked plastic blue cups. The party was loud and yet we were able to get to know each other. The good parts. The parts you want to know and revel in about her and about yourself. It was a magical night.

He is a beautiful cat. He looks like someone poured black paint over his with fur starting from the top of his head down his back and covering his entire tail.
His face is a bandit’s mask. I love him so much.
And I don’t even know him. He just came to live with us yesterday. But he’s not a hider. He sniffed around and let us play with him, though he doesn’t yet let us pick him up or cuddle him. That’s when he bites a little. Not enough to draw blood but enough to make you careful.
He doesn’t love us yet. Not yet.

Father and son talked on the porch. I’d wanted to listen in, because I know part of it was about me. Some of it, at least.
I’d started all of this, if you want to know the truth. I’d come between them, made them doubt things about each other. Made them think the other was lying.
That had never been my intention. I’d wanted them to reconcile. But then, well, things turned out differently. So here I am. There they are.
“Join the military,” the father said.
“No,” the son said.
After that exchange, I could only hear whispers. I knew this part –the whispering–was about me.

She called to say she was on her way. We waited for her.

I was the only one on the porch waiting. The others were well-dressed, to make a good impression on her. Sunday best. Knife-pressed pants. Bowties. Pompadours.

Not me. I was shirtless. Sweating. Crossing my legs against the batter in Levi cut-offs. I wanted her to see the real me. When she arrived she smiled and said, “Alright, that will do.” and told me to put some clothes on.

But I refused. So she walked past me and entered the house, where everyone cheered. I followed inside, refusing to change.

It was in a shack, in the woods. A small house filled with empty cans of paint, cigarette butts and smashed aluminum cans of Diet Pepsi.
It was there that we declared our love for each other, as children. Then, as teenagers. It was so important then, to hide our love. Not because it was bad or wrong or against our family values. But because we didn’t want to share it with anyone. Unlike other love that you want to shout from rooftops.
The two of us wanted to whisper it, in each others ears. It existed only for us.
A selfish love. Dark, dank. Never to see the light of day.
I was told, decades later, that the shack had burned down. Even it hadn’t, it would have fallen eventually. It was just too old, rickety, even then. Such a fragile thing, that shack, ready to collapse at any given moment. With the slightest touch or whisper.

I know. You see him carrying on, as if nothing’s happened. And he would be right. Nothing has happened.
Not yet.
But you keep hoping and praying. You’ve gotten down on your knees at the altar of a Catholic church. You lit a candle.
And your an Atheist.
But you want him so badly.
Oh man.