All and Nothing

She had dreamt of him again.

She lay in bed, hands pressed against her head.  Maybe I can squeeze him out of my head, like pulp from an orange.  Actually, a drill might work.  She imagined boring the memory of him out of her head.  She turned hastily from one side to the other.  This is ridiculous.  I haven’t seen him in ages.  Why am I dreaming about him?  Didn’t I get the point?  “The point” felt like a stake being driven through her chest.

She was afraid of sleep.  Even in her sleep she found no rest, no escape, from the truth.  He didn’t want her.  And that was it.

That should have been the end of it.  That should have been enough.  That should have been enough to close the case, draw the curtains, end the story, cut all ties, extinguish the flames, relinquish all hope.  She remembered when she had first heard the words.  She could have sworn she had felt a sense of relief, a sense of release.  She remembered laughing as she called her best friend to tell her the good news. 

Am I stupid?  What's wrong with me?  The line had been cut, the cord had been severed.  She had every reason and every recourse to get up, go out and move on.  Yet she couldn’t walk away, she couldn’t even place one foot in front of the other to make some cheap attempt at movement.  Had she been tied to hope for too long, so long that she had forgotten how much more easily she could breathe without it?

She remembered most the morning after.  The truth had been left to settle overnight and it had expanded – exploded – in her heart, leaving behind this mess for her to clean.  Only, no amount of scrubbing could remove this stain. 

She lay in bed. All she wanted was a way out.  All she wanted was a morning after without any memory, any recollection, any sign, any trace, any hint of him.  All she wanted was a morning after without any fragment of feeling, any consequences from all the tossing and turning, any possibility of possibility, any remains of yet another dream, any residue of hope.

All she wanted was him.

What's Yours Is Not Mine

She was perfection.

Everything she said, every gag she pulled, every time she smiled, anything she wore, every lame joke she told, every time she feigned anger, all the times she forgave him, every time she teased, all the ways she showed her care, every note she wrote, any story she told, every tune she hummed, any color she painted her toenails, all the ways she understood, every hair on her head, any time of the day.  Even the way she ate.  Always the way she smelled.

She knew him.  Every lame joke he told, every stunt he pulled, every one of his shy smiles, every time he teased, every band he loved, any time he was bullshitting, every time he struggled with his words, every one of his favorite drinks, all the reasons why he acted "that way", every time he put up his fronts, any excuse he gave, all the ways he spoke without saying a word, every look in his eyes, all the times he needed to be alone, any mood he was in.  Even the way he was "such a guy”.  Always the way he cared.

He couldn’t stand couples.  He couldn’t stand relationships.  He couldn’t stand the idea of marriage. Why tie yourself down?  (And tie yourself down to the same person?)  Why lose yourself to somebody else?  He hated the thought of settling down.  He hated the thought of settling.

But then he thought of her.  And he knew that every doubt could be laid to rest, every risk should be taken, every battle was worth fighting.  He knew that there was every reason to lose himself if he could find her, if he could be with her.

And then he remembered.  He remembered the ring on her finger.  He remembered him.  He remembered that she was perfection that didn’t belong to him in every way, in any way.  He had known from the start.  But he had chosen to lose himself anyway.

How could he explain it?  She only had to be who she was and every hope, every desire, every tomorrow, every reason, every pain, every joy was wrapped up in her.  And even if her every smile and every part could never belong to him, he could forgive himself.  Because she would always be worth it.

Puppet

She looked up again.  8:01pm.  Was it too late for dinner?  No.  Well, not really.  The sun was taking its sweet time.  Sh!$.  So was he.

She leaned back in her chair.  God.  I hope he doesn't think I'm waiting for him to call.  Nail clippings and an open laptop were evidence that she was not waiting; evidence that she was too busy to wait, too busy to have dinner.  She was a busy woman and didn't have time to notice things like...the time.

She turned the volume up on her radio and paused.  I am not going to check my email again.  Instead, she suddenly became very aware that her bed hadn't been properly made (but, really, when had it ever been) and that she didn't like her hair.  Is it too late to curl it?  It looks so flat!  I swear it looked fine an hour ago.  She turned the radio up.  She turned the radio down.  Just in case, she thought.

She shivered as she smoothed the corners of her mattress.  She replayed the conversations over and over, all the time.  Only her favorite parts.  Only the parts that made her forget and repeat everything she was doing for the moment.  How was it possible that she liked, that she enjoyed, that she delighted in, feeling like a plastic doll (limbs and emotions completely maneuverable and manipulated), a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little girl, whenever he spoke to her?  How was it possible that she - she who had an opinion just to have an opinion and intimidated and infuriated all the boys - could say absolutely nothing in response (or in protest) to his shameless, incessant winking, teasing, touching, smirking, smiling, flirting?  She didn't dare protest - he might stop.  And then what would she have left?

She smoothed the corners of her mattress again.  She loved reading between the lines, interpreting glances and gestures and grins.  The gaps and the blanks were easy to fill in.  It was the fine print she avoided.  She was never satisfied with their time together.  She couldn't understand why he said, why he did, some of the things he did.  What did he mean?  What was he thinking?  Why did he look at her that way?  Then how could he walk right past her?  She never showed much emotion, much expression, much attention, much of a reaction.  She never asked why he sometimes left without saying good-bye.  She never allowed herself to believe what she suspected.  She couldn't care.  At least, she couldn't show that she did.

He hadn't said that he would call.  He never said that he would call.  But he did.  He would.  Whenever he wanted to, he would call. 

She wanted him to know.  She wanted to know.  Only, she already knew.  

8:37pm.

Not A Diamond A Dozen

She looked at the ring.  Every so often, she had to look.  She still had trouble believing it was there - that it was still there.

She played with its corners and rolled the band in her fingers.  It wasn't exactly the cut she wanted and, come to think of it, hadn't she asked him for something smaller, something that would elegantly rest on her finger rather than shout to be noticed?  But who was she to complain?  How dare she complain.  She still remembered the expression on his face as he slid the ring on her finger for the first time.  Never before had she seen him smile so uncontrollably, never before had she seen him so happy, so...pleased.  She knew how much this had meant to him (at least, that's what he told her so that's what she told herself).  "I'm lucky.  I really am."  The realization repeated itself so often that it was beginning to sound like a reminder.

She fought the impulse to wrestle and wrench this heavy platinum band off her finger; she swallowed the rising words and the urge to yell, absurdly and fully, at this obnoxious diamond.  How could she allow this to go on?  How could she continue to convince herself that it didn't matter, that it would fade away, that it was all in her imagination, that it could be bought, tamed and owned by this ring?

She didn't doubt that this ring and all its promises and possibilities meant something to him.  He had always said that he wanted to settle down; He loved his family so much and he couldn't wait to have one of his own.  As she turned the ring around her finger, she suddenly realized that he had never said that he wanted to settle down with her, that he couldn't wait to raise a family with her, that he couldn't wait to marry her.

She paused and looked down at the ring again.  And suddenly she realized that she couldn't, that she wouldn't, that she shouldn't, live with this any longer.  She had been the girl at the right place and the right time.  But she had not, she had never, been chosen by him.  It wasn't that this ring was replaceable, exchangeable.  She was.

She didn't want to be at the right place at the right time.  She didn't want love as if it were a silly loyalty, a universally acceptable and compatible part.  She wanted to believe that he had chosen her when he unexpectedly spotted her through the crowds and forced the taxi driver to stop in the middle of the honking and the cursing and the rush hour traffic so that he could catch her name and find out what type of music she liked (and would she think him absolutely out of his mind and out of his league if he hoped that she would go out with a complete stranger?).  She wanted to believe that he had chosen her even when every other opportunity had presented itself to him, every bet had been against her, every reason had been for why not to pursue this.  She wanted to believe that he had chosen her because she had been the right girl for him, regardless of place, time, convenience and circumstance. 

And knowing that none of this was reality and all of this a hope that would not stop tugging at her sleeve and her heart was not worth this ring and all its contractual guarantees and security deposits.

She slid the ring from her finger and decided that she would choose her worth today.

Packaged: Return to Sender

she looked at him again.  just barely.  long enough to notice bits and pieces but not long enough to like any of them.

she was nervous.  she wanted to present something attractive to him.  she didn't think about the steps after or the consequences of.  she only knew that right now, in this moment, as she smiled and wished for better lighting, she hoped he might think her worthy - worth his time, worth his efforts, worth getting to know.  she didn't want this to go anywhere, she didn't need this to.  she only knew she had to pass this test.  she could've sworn she heard the ticking and tocking (perhaps the "tsk-ing"?) of a watch, the drumming and pointing of impatient fingers.

she wanted to laugh.  how silly the entire situation was!  to allow a complete stranger to read her palm by scanning her face and her body, to allow this person (who, by the way, wasn't really listening to anything she was saying) dictate her present value and future worth.

she rode along the conveyor belt, pinched and poked, sized, scaled and scrutinized.  she was sure she had already been branded so she wondered why it always took so long to....
ah-ha!  and there it was.  the moment the judges revealed their scores.

she didn't want him.  he wasn't the prize.  she wanted to pass the test.  she wanted to win.

she had forgotten that winning wasn't everything.