Hands holding icy cold Pepsi bottles, lips sucking on paper straws, sitting on a flat rock, legs dangling over the edge, toes skimming the still water of the lake.
Your old portable radio tuned to an ’80s station. Duran Duran singing “Rio.” The chorus carried away by a warm breeze blowing through the swaying trees.
Our conversation tracing back to the first time we met.
—
“I often wonder if it was destiny, or maybe a perfect alignment of the stars, or something even more magical that brought us together,” you said, kissing my hand.
“I believe it was just sheer luck. Being in the right place, at the right time. Of course, how we fell in love was quite a different matter. It was fate. For how could anything this wonderful, this magnificent, be of this earth?”
We Held Nothing Back
We shared everything. It was just the way it was between us. We held nothing back. Even the last tiny square of chocolate was always carefully broken in half.
My Sunday Muse
There was something rather pleasantly serene about the state of post-orgasm.
The blushing glow of happiness and contentment upon our cheeks, hair messy, legs still trembling with pleasure—laying on a bed that felt like a soft cloud floating across a calm summer sky.
My fingers tracing the delicate curve of your breast, while your smiling eyes wandered, your mind drifting away to a place where thoughts gathered.
“I love you.”
There was no immediate response from Sophia.
“Oh, sorry, I was away with the fairies,” she replied suddenly. “I love you too.”
“Looks like you were deep in thought.”
Sophia grinned. “Well, I was thinking about how our perspective of the world is corrupted. How the images and narrative so often presented in the media, and especially social media, is frequently flawed and, in many cases, skillfully manipulated to promote somebody else’s agenda.”
I laughed. “I love it how your head can just jump from wild sex to pop culture in a matter of moans.”
Sophia poked me hard in the ribs and burst out laughing too. “What do you think about that? How we have moved away from reality and fallen into this abyss of unreality.”
“Well, to be honest, I think we’ve given up on seeking the truth. It’s become a task few people are willing to undertake these days. It’s been relegated to the too-hard basket. It seems like searching for actual facts and taking the time to cross-check them is sadly a dying art.”
“I agree,” Sophia replied, reaching under the sheets to find her crumpled panties. “Perhaps an even greater travesty is our intellectual laziness.”
“Interesting. I’m all ears,” I said.
Sophia slid her feet into her panties and pulled them up in one smooth action without pausing from the conversation. “Rather than do the research and find the evidence that supports a point of view, too many people instead choose the far easier option. To run with the first thought that pops into their heads and then waste all their mental energy to convince themselves, and others, they are right. Worse still, is the dreadful habit of parking their brains in some dead-end street and simply parroting the opinions of the mob. Selling out their integrity for some mindless clicked likes and dumb-ass smiley faces.”
“Perhaps the world is slowly going insane and doesn’t realize it.”
“No, I disagree,” Sophia said, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “I believe we’ve reached a point in history where we know exactly the stupid path we are sleepwalking along but simply don’t care enough to wake up and change direction.”
“Lemmings jumping off the cliff,” I muttered, picking up the notepad and pen that sat on the bedside table.
“Exactly! Hey, what are you doing?”
“You just inspired me to write something.”
—
Social Mediocrity
Dumb it down,
rip it up,
burn free speech
to the ground.
Don’t dare offend,
just pretend,
be a sheep
inside the bubble,
content to bleat,
on repeat—
the silly nonsense
idiots say.
Ignore the facts,
do not retract,
hold on tight
to your flawed opinions.
Never disagree,
just appease,
sell your intellect
to the lowest bidder.
The Language of Flowers
You spoke the language of flowers. Every scented word an explosion of color. Falling from your rosy lips—how unfurled petals kiss the morning dew.
Restless
When a dream comes true, it never ceases to amaze me how quickly the restlessness returns. Like when you’re enjoying a delicious chocolate mousse and begin to wonder whether you should have ordered the profiteroles.
The Break Up
“Have you told him?” Lucy asked, her arms wrapped around Anna’s slender waist.
Anna laughed, “Yes, I told him. He got the message loud and clear.”
Lucy kissed Anna hard on the lips and stared into her coffee-colored eyes. “I’m so proud of you. Tell me, what did you say to Heath? I’m dying to know.”
Anna slid her hand under Lucy’s yellow tee and kissed her neck. “Well, I didn’t exactly speak to him in person, but I left him a note. It certainly did the job. He moved out on Wednesday and I haven’t heard from him since.”
“So, what did you write?” Lucy asked, barely containing her excitement.
“Well, it went a little like this.”
—
Spare me the sweet nothings, the endless talk of campfires and forest wandering. Shove those marshmallows up your ass. Pack up your woolly hat, the hiking boots, and the rest of your well-curated disguise. You patronizing fake!
Hiding behind your “oh so perfect” hipster designer beard, faux namaste greetings, and smug, shit-eating grin.
Rip up those little notes of platitudes, the cringe-worthy poems, and the fading Polaroids you stuck up on my fridge.
And while you’re at it, take your wanky collection of whiny, folksy, rubbish records with you.
Leave nothing behind.
Not a single trace that you ever existed.
Including that fucking boring book of origami you gave me for my birthday.
I know who you really are, Heath.
I’ve seen the little angry man lurking inside of you.
The nasty, possessive, jealous troll, who lashes out after necking too many of your bullshit bottles of craft beer. The bully who hits first and then sobs later. You pathetic excuse for a human being.
Just get the fuck out of my life.
You mansplaining piece of trash!
A Summer Story
A summer story—
the sea sings blue,
below indigo sky
of darker hue,
rolling waves break
over splashing legs,
the cry of seagulls
flying overhead,
a Frisbee thrown
to leaping dog,
sandcastles crushed
under stomping foot,
scurrying crabs
on seaweed rocks,
while sailing boats sleep
in moonlit docks,
our whiskey sipped
with salty lips,
around driftwood fires
dance swaying hips,
beneath shooting stars
warm kisses tell,
a tale of lovers
slowly bewitched—
by summer
’s
hypnotic spell.
Who Am I?
We live so many lives in a single lifetime that it is often difficult to reconcile the person we once were with the stranger staring back at us in the mirror.
The Final Chapter
The dark circles
under these eyes
tell my story,
cigarette burns
on pale skin
my words,
like a broken book—
its pages
ripped out,
only the ending
left to be written.
Sleeping Beauty
Véronique.
So beautiful. So familiar. How smoothly it rolls off my tongue whenever I say it.
Véronique. Véronique. Véronique . . .
I cannot begin to count the number of times I have said your name over the years. Tracing the letters across your naked back, in that moment of calm—after fucking each other senseless beneath the sheets.
Véronique.
Do you remember the first time I spoke your name?
—
The Hysteria Club was packed. Standing room only. A sea of dancing bodies in front of me. Music thumping, spotlights spinning—flickering images of Andy Warhol projected onto screens.
I weaved through the crowd, pausing every so often to look for a new route, a slim gap, any opportunity to squeeze past and get to the front of the stage.
Then it happened.
The girl standing next to me collapsed to the floor.
—
All you needed was a little air.
That’s what you told me.
So I took you outside and we stood on the corner, two strangers leaning against an old brick wall by the club. Saturday night traffic, horns honking, cruising bumper to bumper along the boulevard.
That was the very first time you told me your name.
My ears straining to hear it over the traffic noise. I had to ask you again. When I repeated it back to you, I struggled to pronounce it correctly.
You burst out laughing.
I tried to hide my embarrassment. My eyes staring down awkwardly at my feet as you said your name again.
“Véronique,” I said, sounding out each syllable with careful precision.
“Perfect!” you replied with a beaming smile. Your pale blue eyes staring deeply into mine.
And that’s when everything changed in a split second.
I was struck by a sudden thunderbolt of overwhelming emotions.
Giddiness.
Goosebumps.
An intoxicating cocktail of excitement, attraction, and desire.
You reached out for my hand and held it in yours. “Now I’ve told you my name, I’m dying to hear yours.”
Just as I was about to say it, you leaned in and kissed me quickly on the lips. Silencing me in an instant.
“No rush,” you said with a coy smile. “Come, walk with me a little.”
“Sure,” I said. “We could head down to Chinatown if you want. Perhaps get some dumplings. I know a late-night place that makes incredible ones.”
“How did you know? I fucking love dumplings!”
“Serendipity, I guess,” I replied laughing.
You squeezed my hand and pulled me closer.
Your lips gently touching my ear.
“I just love it when the stars collide,” you whispered.
—
Véronique.
How many times have I said your name tonight?
And all the other nights.
Sitting here by your hospital bed waiting for you to wake up.
Holding your hand. Brushing your hair. Recounting all the stories we wrote together.
Can you hear me, my love?
I haven’t slept much lately. And when I do, the nightmares return.
Jagged images flashing out of sequence.
Your naked body crumpled on the bathroom floor. The shower running. Flashing ambulance lights.
Cradling you in my arms. Heavy raindrops exploding in slow motion on the pavement. She just needs a little air . . .
The doctors said there was nothing I could have done. The brain tumor on the X-ray confirmed it. But I can’t stop myself from thinking, if only I had gotten home five minutes earlier.
All I can do now is hope for a miracle.
Pray those beautiful eyes will open again.
And our stars will collide once more.
You
I always thought you meant the world to me. I was wrong. You mean much more than that. Even the universe doesn’t come close.
Love on Mute
We watched the rain fall
outside my window,
wintery gray static—
playing silently
on a glass television,
your head resting
on my shoulder,
passing a joint
between lips,
that said nothing
and everything,
in the same breath.
Denial
Do not be fooled by my air of nonchalance, the hesitation in my words, for deep down it is all just a hopeless deception. It is my unbridled fear of rejection that keeps me trapped in this sorry state of denial. Can you see the cracks appearing in this wall I have built? Like a dam dangerously close to bursting—my love a raging torrent waiting to break free.
Empty Words
There are plenty
of other fish in the sea,
you said sitting by
the ocean,
never knowing
what it’s like
to live your life
in a shrinking pond—
fast becoming
an empty puddle.
Haters
Don’t listen to their bullshit—
just jealousy in disguise,
the bitter brooding envy
of shallow, spiteful lives.
And when they swing
the wrecking ball,
watch it swing
and miss its mark,
only to swing
back again,
and hit them
twice as hard.
Coffee with the Ex
You said I was a lost cause. A hopeless case. Somebody who wouldn’t amount to anything. Yet here I am, proudly standing tall. Content in my own skin and happy with my life.
And here you are, sipping an expresso. Telling me you always knew I would be successful. Trying to crawl back into my world again. A shocked expression plastered on your twisted face as I close the door behind me.
Ace of Hearts
And with a sudden
swish of curtains drawn,
the magic went away.
Your love for me
a vanishing act,
performed with
sleight of hand.
The Ace of Hearts—
the card I held,
the one you
gave to me,
you took it back,
no longer whole—
but torn apart
in two.
Sweet Corruption
How wonderful it is to wander in this valley of sweet corruption. Where fingers walk between the banks of a flowing river, and lips taste the nectar of summer peaches, left to ripen in the sun.
Consequences
What was I thinking? The truth was, I wasn’t. My head in the clouds, ego pulsing through my veins, my cock doing all the decision-making. Convincing myself it would be just a one-off. A quick thrill. The seemingly fitting conclusion to weeks of flirty exchange
s, that secret kiss in the hallway when you were leaving, the exchange of texts late at night while my wife was sleeping.
I have no excuses for what happened next. The lunchtime motel hook-ups when I was supposed to be at work, eating a sandwich at my desk. The lies spun from guilty lips that hid my shame beneath a beaming smile. The hurried showers taken when I walked in through the door at night, before sitting down to a wonderful dinner as if nothing had happened.
And when the damning receipt was found in the pocket of my trousers, the proof of infidelity, the evidence that exposed me for the cheating asshole I was, what did I do? I lied again. Only this time, I had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, I was just another fucking cheater. A low-life piece of shit, standing in a laundry wringing my hands and waiting for my marching orders.
But it wasn’t me who left was it?
The rotten twist of fate that lives with me still. The recurring nightmare that continues to haunt me.
Leaving the office late at night. The elevator doors opening in the basement. Casually walking into the underground parking lot and finding Jenny dead. Slumped inside her Mustang. Engine running. A blue hose attached to the exhaust pipe, the other end pushed into a partially open window, the slim gap stuffed with dirty towels.
You said you loved me. You told me you would leave her.
That’s all the note said. Pinned to the windshield by a window wiper.
I didn’t have the courage to go to the funeral. Instead I called in sick that day. It wasn’t long after, I quit my job too. The endless speculation by my co-workers as to why Jenny took her own life was too much for me to bear.
She seemed so happy.
The words they kept repeating, gathered around the water cooler, while I acted just as surprised and shocked. Doing my best to conceal the paralyzing fear that somehow the truth of our affair would eventually be revealed.
Only my wife knew the real story. Refusing to accept the reality of my despicable conduct. Stoically standing by her wretched man. Her forgiveness given with a hug, causing me to break free from her arms and run to the bathroom. Vomiting into the toilet. The acrid aftertaste of betrayal on my breath. Face flushed, staring into the mirror, knowing I would never forgive myself.
—
There are consequences to every action we take. Some for the better, others for the worse. And always one that we regret for the rest of our lives.
Winter of Summers Page 2
