I used to slip her little notes,
In her closet, her bags, her pillows and clothes,
“Surprise!” the words I’d begin to pen,
“I love you. P.S: You’ve good taste in men.”
She’d laugh at these small novelties,
She loved the lil’ discoveries,
“I’ll get you back one day,” she’d say,
With a smile in her eyes, “There’ll be hell to pay!”
Been years, since we’ve moved past that mess,
Since she left me for someone else,
And I’d dust the coat I’ve not worn in a while,
And in the pocket a sheet would lie.
“I got you back just like I said,
“You’re cute, you’re sweet, and you’re really great,
“You’re my only one, my Mister Right,”
And I wept myself to sleep that night.
Photo credit: Boris Thaser
Sometimes my mind plucks out memories at random, and as part of the collateral, visions of people who’ve left a mark on my life without actually being a part of it get pulled out of the muck. These are strangers whose names and faces have escaped me through the passage of time, with only their actions serving as proof of our acquaintance.
I call these people randies, and I was thinking about one as I opened the door to the Jiu-jitsu gym. The thought barely even matured before Josh waved a phone at my face. “Hey! I heard Sandy’s getting married?”
Photo credit: Esther Bubley
Sara put her finger in the ant’s path. It backtracked momentarily, then crawled onto her finger.
“Look at this ant,” she said. “Think about everything that it’s oblivious of.”
“Mm hmm.” I kept my eyes on my book. I knew—and didn’t like—where this was headed.
Photo credit: Sandra Druschke
“So what happened to Len anyway? You guys were like the perfect couple,” Seth said.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. You guys keep telling me how great we were together, but things just didn’t work out.”
“Shame. I doubt you’d ever find someone like that again.”
Photo credit: Thomas Leuthard
I remember the days before I had a blog. Days where my friends were free to humiliate themselves in my presence without asking if I was going to write about them. Things have changed; today they treat me like a reporter waiting for his big scoop. They think I’m secretly documenting their every tic for a grand exposé, soon to be read by millions. Well joke’s on them, because first of all, nobody reads my blog.
Finally, I’ve gotten around to continuing this personal recount. Read part one here.
The phone rang, and I would sooner chew on broken glass than pick up the call. Cindy rarely called anymore, so when her name registered on the screen, I was sure that having a serious talk would be an understatement. I answered the phone.
“What the fuck, is that bitch, doing sitting on your lap.” It wasn’t a question. Also, there’s something about broken sentences that amplifies the perception of anger, especially when coupled with a seething calm.
“What lap? What are you talking about? We’re just friends!” I said in a tone somewhere between a comforting snigger and a cry for help.
“Don’t lie to me. And what the fuck, are you doing, hugging her.”
“Okay, fine. Fine. Babe, we need to talk.”