May 4, 2008
I looked across the table and asked, “Why aren’t you talking?”
“I’m listening” she replied.
I instantly began a mental tirade: “I’m not a whore!” I wanted to scream. “Assign me to the food committee next time - the entertainment committee sucks” I wanted to sneer. “Monologues are masturbation. Discourse is a part of intercourse!” I wanted to blurt. I sipped and swallowed and began telling her about my day.
August 15, 2007
May 3, 2008
We exchanged pleasantries but now it was time to trade necessities. I had my explanations in my pocket. I pulled her answers from near my breast and straightened my tie.
She looked at me with astonishment. “You made a list?” she interrogated. “Well I wanted to be sure I had a complete answer,” I vindicated. “You made a list?” she accused. “Yeah, I gave this serious thought,” I excused. “Couldn’t you just tell me your answer instead of reading it to me?” she sighed. “Sure but I wanted to make sure I didn’t forget anything,” I conceded. I sat my resource near my plate. My blush matched the shade of her cheeks. There’d never be an about face. We’ll never make up.
I felt ashamed of my behavior as I walked away. I had the slip of paper in my pocket yet I don’t understand why it was considered a slip-up. I don’t understand why someone asks me for an answer or presents his petition and then mocks the completeness of my response. Am I not supposed to offer the issue the proper consideration? Am I not supposed to offer him a complete thought? Am I supposed to simply spit out a yes or a no?
I’m committed to my conversations with my companions and occasionally I commit my comments to paper. But, I rarely write letters. I have typed one letter in the last year. I’m more the type to send breezy emails. But emails merit less consideration and carry more merriment. I’ll write an email to remind a man he’s not alone, but I’ll compose a letter. Yet I’ll stand by each of my words in all mediums. I chose each word because I thought the relationship merited the effort. I’m always surprised that the recipient doesn’t feel he’s worth my effort. Of course the pinnacle of my affection is a handwritten note. It’s rare and it’s my gift. I avoid cursive writing with the same ardor I avoid feminist poetry. 
I have note cards with the word peace on the face. And if I send that card, then I consider us as close as brothers and I wanted to share a piece of my peace with my brethren.
I think too many people graze through life like cows in a meadow. They move their mouths along the surface with intention to feed and then they graze toward a new patch of grass. I think of each encounter as a moment of time in the synchronicity of Divinity. And I take the time to offer my time. I try to treat each being as an equitable participant in the process of life. I’ll utter a joke or a quip but I’ll ruminate on a consideration because I try to be considerate. Is that too much to give? Sometimes it is. But which human beings deserve less? Count the people you pass each day and then justify loneliness.
There must be a balance between a declaration and an utterance. Society evolved from the parlor to the porch and from the written word to the spoken call in the twentieth century. Now we’re evolving toward the typed message. And as we travel more and move further, I wonder why our conversations embrace brevity and the content is confined to mere levity. As we distance ourselves geographically, we’re distancing ourselves emotionally.
Yet we embrace familiarity with strangers as we shun the familial with our fraternity. That can’t be progress. If my emotions and considerations can be confined to three words without vowels – then I’m not even grazing the surface. I’m spending all my time on one blade of grass.
I’m not suggesting that we pull out all the stops and make endless lists of our ruminations, explanations and justifications. I’m just saying that I don’t think friendship demands we offer our companions the benefit of the doubt. I’m stating that true agape exists when there isn’t a doubt. And although I’ll receive doubtless condemnations of these considerations, I’m doubtful that I’ll cease my practice of living my life completely, entirely, and without omissions. If I’ve omitted an essential piece of information, it’s because I ran out of the spit to moisten my mouth or to seal the envelope and not because I ran out of intention to give a fellow human being my full attention.
October 15, 2007
May 3, 2008
Suddenly she breezes in and smiles at you as she scurries to be by your side. Your mood becomes as light as her steps. She hurries and buries her cheek inside your chin. She giggles as she nibbles your ear. She slides her arms inside your coat and pulls you near as she laughs. “Hey talk to me,” she pouts.
You slip on slick leaves on your path as you walk down the pavement. You hold the umbrella as she holds your hand. You don’t have to hold your breath or hold your tongue. The words pour out of your mouth as the rain slides down the sidewalk and into the street.
October 16, 2007
May 3, 2008
→ She pulled away from me and said, “I can’t figure you out.” I replied that I’m not riddled. When you’ve lost everything there’s nothing left to lose so you can risk anything. I put each emotion and all intellectual endeavors on the table for examination. She doesn’t understand full disclosure. I don’t understand suspicion. I’m not complex. It’s just that simple.
→ He walked by and my heart raced. He is the epitome of enemy. I dislike him with an intensity that bores my soul with sin. I became so angry my vision clouded. I begged God to help me hold my tongue. I slapped a smile on my face and spoke neither word nor sigh. He pretended he didn’t see me and I pretended he wasn’t a sadistic prick. I gave my word to my friend that I’d remain silent. It’s the highest price I’ve ever paid for a friendship.
October 31, 2007
May 2, 2008
“Oh come on! Pleaaaaasssse!” she giggled. She knew his earlobes were his soft spot.
“No, seriously. I don’t want to” he resisted.
“Ok, here’s what I’m thinkin’. I say we play a game. Winner wins” she suggestively urged. “If I win, you have to do it. If you win, you don’t!” she seductively smiled.
“Yeah, but I don’t have to do it now” he stated the obvious.
“Oh come on! Where’s your sense of sport?” she raised her brow and lowered her voice.
“Which game?” he asked.
“Um … let me look what’s here,” she knelt as she began to dig through the boxes. “Hey! Scrabble or dominoes?”
“Oh Christ,” he laughed. “Scrabble. I vote Scrabble.”
“Ok mister! I can whoop you at Scrabble!” she stood and started to walk toward the dining room.
“No, let’s play on the coffee table, then we can play tunes” he urged as he removed the books and knacks. “I’ll set up the board while you get the tunes. Something with a beat please.”
“Hey what do you want to drink?” he screamed from the kitchen.
“Diet Pepsi!” she yelled.
He winced while he poured. “How can she drink this shit?” he thought as he added ice. “Ok let’s set the ground rules,” he ordered while he balanced her order with a bowl of granola. “Jesus woman – you gnaw” he shook his head with affection.
“Ground rules? We don’t need no stinkin’ ground rules!” she chuckled as she chewed.
“Yeah, we do,” he felt firm. “I won’t use ecclesiastical words and you can’t use medical jargon. Agreed?”
“No. Absolutely not. No. Nuh-uh,” she negated. “We’re adults. Let’s just play.”
He rolled his eyes to confirm his concession, “where’s your dictionary?”
“I got one,” she stood and left the room. She returned with a slim paperback.
“You’re kidding right? That’s not a dictionary! That one didn’t finish puberty! Don’t you have a real dictionary?” he challenged.
“You know what … too many rules! Let’s just play!” She sat and started to take a tile. “I have E.”
He took his tile, “T. You’re first.” The game began. Two hours and two arguments later, she finished with a flourish.
“P-A-T-Z-E-R” she spelled with a flout. She added her score and he totaled the tally. He announced that she trounced. She raised her hands above her head as she parad
ed around his periphery. “I won! I won! You soooooooooo owe me!” She raced from the room and returned with a little pink razor.
“You expect me to use that?” he asked. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, sure! Come on! Go shave!” she beamed.
“I can’t use that!” he flatly insisted.
“Hey … I won honey! I won!” she gloated as she gnawed her granola.
“Ok please let me explain this to you,” he began. “Using a Lady Bic that you’ve used on your legs to scrape the hair off my face while using Ivory bar soap not only screams ‘Ouch!’ but it can easily be accompanied by profanities. And not just the four lettered variety. I’m talking the polysyllabic and adjective intensive multipurpose curse words. I cannot use a Lady Bic.”
“Hey … shut up and start shavin’ buster! You lost!” She crossed her arms on her chest and planted her feet.
“I’ll shave. I will. You have my word. I hate it too you know. I’ll shave it Wednesday. I promise.”
“You promise?” she inquired.
“Solemn oath,” he vowed.
“Alrighty then,” she concluded. “Solemn oath huh?”
“Absolutely,” he assured. “Hey what’s a patzer anyway?”
“Do you care?” she giggled. “We could look it up.”
“Is it a real word?” he questioned. “Were you bluffing? I lost my beard to a bluff?”
“I dunno. It looked real! It doesn’t matter though – you lost!” she crowed. “Wednesday?”
“Wednesday. And I’m never playing poker with you,” he pledged.
“Are you sure?” she enchanted.
“Get the cards!” he said as he cleared the table.
“Oh my God, Thanksgiving pictures with a beard!” she wailed as she searched for a deck.
November 21, 2007
May 2, 2008
“Beyoncé,” she smiled. “Don’t you like her?”
“I pity her,” he snickered. “I didn’t know she was asthmatic.”
“Oh hush!” she laughed.
“Jesus woman, do you mean to tell me that you like this crap?” he winced with his words.
“Yeah, it’s good! Where’s your Christmas spirit?” she spat at her skirt with a spray of steam.
“I have the spirit baby. I just don’t think Beyoncé has her inhaler,” he shuddered. “Let me coach you to the realization that good Christmas music is Nat King Cole … Bing Crosby … Frank Sinatra?” he considered Sinatra’s inclusion, “… nah,” he spoke out of the side of his mouth, “not so much … Johnny Mathis - certainly.” His voice trailed off. “Oh!” he snapped his fingers, “Burl Ives!”
“Ok. Burl Ives. Who’s that?” she asked him with more than a hint of exasperation.
“Oh Christ! Are you telling me that I’m in love with a woman who doesn’t know that Burl Ives is the voice of Christmas?” he slapped his hands to his head as if to silently invoked heaven for assistance.
“You’re in love with me?” she giggled.
“Ok … missing the point here.” He motioned with his fingers for her to focus. “Burl Ives IS Christmas. Ok, are you about to tell me some sad story about you being too poor for a tv as a kid because remember I’ve met your parents and they aren’t some Appalachian mountain kinfolk type. You would be the first human being I’ve ever met who hasn’t seen Rudolph, The Red-nosed Reindeer show as a kid. 
So come on … make a little history here.” He took a step forward. “Are you prepared to accept the laurels of being the only human being over the age of … I don’t know … like toddler who hasn’t seen Rudolph, The Red-nosed Reindeer?”
She laughed and crossed her hands over her chest, “yes, of course I’ve seen it! But are you saying you love me?”
“Well it’s a good thing that you’ve seen the show because I most definitely am not prepared to declare any sort of concrete affection for a woman who hasn’t participated in popular culture.” He moved toward the kitchen. “The disparity would be too jarring for us to overcome.” He made his escape under the guise of thirst.
“Hey buster!” she trailed his trailing voice, “are you saying you love me?”
“Ok yeah. Yes. Yes. I’m saying that,” he conceded to her kiss. “But don’t push the Beyoncé thing. This love is fragile and vulnerable.” She laughed as she poured the Diet Pepsi. He looked at her, “Ok, next we work on that whole Diet Pepsi thing. It’s vile.”
November 25, 2007
May 2, 2008
“Ok,” he said while he glanced up from his computer. “Yeah, that was me. I ate them.” He turned his attention back to the screen.
“Well it isn’t right. I just fixed myself a salad and now I don’t have any croutons. And they’re my favorite part.” She tipped the bowl to show him the extent of his crumby deed.
“Yeah, I won’t do it again. I get it,” he hadn’t looked up from his work.
“Well I don’t even want to eat this now,” she lifted the bowl toward his eyes, “I’ve wasted the entire thing. We don’t have any dressing because we haven’t gone to the store but I was going to eat it anyway because I figured I’d just add extra croutons.” She cast her eyes into the bowl. “I mean we bought them for a salad.”
He took his glasses off of his face and held them in his hands while she held his attention from his work. “Ok, I’m sorry I ate them. I understand how disappointed you are. I won’t eat them again.” He sat back into his seat. “Ok?”
“Ok,” she said as she shuffled to her seat.
He heard her stab her salad with her fork.
“Ok, seriously? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have eaten them. I feel badly about the whole thing. We’ll buy more and I promise I’ll never touch them again.” He sighed his relief at the conclusion of his contrition. “Now I have to get back to work. I have a deadline.”
He stared at the screen while she stared at her salad.
“Well I was just really in the mood for a salad,” she said as she scrutinized. “And I don’t understand why you ate them. I mean, you don’t even like onions.”
“But they’re not onions and I like to chew them,” he offered. “And I said I was sorry.”
“But they taste like onions,” she refuted.
“No. They’re like garlic flavored,” he backspaced as he corrected an error. 
“Ok - same family,” she chewed.
“You know what? I’ve never considered garlic and onions were cousins but it doesn’t matter. It’s not the flavor I object to – it’s the texture. Onions are slimy. They remind me of earthworms.” He stumbled over his statements. “Ok, I love you but I have to get this done.”
“Ok good visual,” she scoffed, “but if you don’t hate the taste you should be able to eat cooked onions because you can’t really taste the texture.”
“But I know the texture. Knowing it is enough. Ok, are we done here? I have to work,” he slid his glasses onto his face and faced the task at hand.
“Ok that doesn’t even make sense,” she stabbed and took a bite. “You can’t taste texture. You can only feel it. And lots of times I put onions into things and you don’t even know it.” She stabbed another mouthful.
He removed his glasses and prepared to say a mouthful, “No, I always know when you slip onions into things. I just don’t say anything. I hurry and swallow and then I wash it all down with milk. So you see, you’re not being so clever – I’m actually being goddamned nice.”
“No way mister – did you know I put onions in the lasagna last night? No. You did not.” She crossed her arms over her chest, remembered her lunch, and stabbed.
“Ok … did you notice how I got up and poured myself more milk? When do I ever drink two glasses of milk at a meal? Oh I knew honey … I knew.” He sat back self-satisfied.
“Are you aware of the fact that onions are an absolutely essential ingredient of lasagna? You can’t make lasagna and not include them. I mean you could, but who would?” Stab and chew.
“People who hate onions would make lasagna without them. Please listen to me. Onions are vile. It’s a fact. I don’t have to defend it. I mean God made it pretty obvious. You have to peel the things before you have to touch or smell them. He disguises them. And they’re buried for our protection,” he took a stab at offering God’s opinion. “We cry when we peel them. An onion is just one goddamned ball of sorrow.”
“Ok for sure that’s the assiest thing I’ve ever heard,” she chuckled and chewed. “No,” she shook her head, “that’s just silly.”
“Silly or just really true?” he leaned over and took a piece of carrot out of her bowl.
She threatened his hand with her fork, “You already ate the best pieces of this salad.”
“Well technically I did not. There were no croutons on this salad,” he let her chew that over as he chewed the captured carrot. “Ok uncooked carrots are putrid.”
“You know what … you’re too picky,” she stabbed the air as she pointed out his flaw. “You’ve all these opinions about food. It’s like way too much judgments.” She lifted the last leaf with her fingers from the bowel of the bowl.
“Ok having opinions is a good thing. It defines who we are. And picky is a good thing. I picked you,” he said self-satisfied. “Now you’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met but I have to work. Maybe I should just go home and get it done.”
“Ok I resent that. I can be quiet. You work. I have to study anyway,” she said as she removed her bowl from the table and removed herself from the room.
The silence was stabbed by her question, “Hey! Last week when I made spaghetti for your friends, I put a ton of onions in it and you didn’t even know! Did you?” He heard her appealing giggles peal from the kitchen. 
He stood up and walked into her presence. “Ok, do remember how drunk I got that evening? Just how many glasses of wine did I drink? Huh? Oh wait – that’s right. I hate wine. Wine is too thick. Let’s just say ‘washed down’ ok?” He kissed her open mouth and laughed. He turned to return to his task.
“You bastard!” she giggled as she washed her dish and put it into the rack.
December 31, 2007
