Reaction

That instantaneous, instinctive response to a stimulus. Your body and mind coming together in a moment, having already decided what your counterpoise is to whatever just happened. You have as little control over the flinch as you did over the pin that pricked you. That's the thing about reactions - they just happen. And in so doing, they reveal truths that you can't pretend away.

"Glad to see you've grown up...also glad I made that decision to cut you out of my life."

So read the email from a man I had cared about for many, many years. A man I had dated, been friends with, and slept with for the better part of a decade. On and off and always complicated. We'd stopped speaking a while ago and I'd thought that I was fine with it. Okay with the dissolution of our relationship, ragged and worn as it had become through the years. I'm over it, I'd tell anyone who asked how I felt about Raj. And I believed it too.

Opening up the email and reading his few words, steeped in vitriol, my reaction was immediate.

What an asshole.

Part of me was frustrated with myself for having wasted so much time, so much energy over someone who should have warranted so little. Part of me was amused over the irony of his statement. All of me was over it. And I didn't just believe that; I knew it to be true. Because that's the thing about reactions. Instant and honest, you can't hide from the truths that they reveal.

Even when you wish you could.

Sitting at my desk on Wednesday, I saw the screen of my cell phone flash out of the corner of my eye. At ten to ten on a work day, I was sure that it must be a wrong number. But I reached for it anyway, ready to dismiss the incoming call from some 800 number or strange area code. Some Unknown Caller.

I stared down at the words flashing across the screen, the caller anything but unknown.

I held my phone in my right hand, which had suddenly grown as cold as if I were clutching a block of ice, and just kept staring. It had been seventeen months. Why was The Latin calling me now?

I thought that perhaps it had been a mistaken dial. Perhaps he'd been trying to call A Lil' Italian Bambina and his fingers had slipped onto me accidentally. But then he left a voicemail and I knew that it had been no mistake.

With ice in my hands and my heart in my throat, I rushed away from the desk and into an empty office. Quivering fingers typed in my password. My breath all but stopped as I listened to the message.

"Hi, Lil. It's The Latin. I had a question for you. If you have a moment and you want to, I'd appreciate it if you'd call me back. At work or on my cell phone if you haven't deleted it yet. Thanks. Bye."

I listened to the message twice more before I forced myself to stop. I hadn't heard that voice in over a year, but it did the same thing to me that it had always done. Sitting there in that dark, empty office, I felt the familiar ache in my chest. The familiar catch in my throat and tears in my eyes.

Instant. Instinctive. The reaction that told me the familiar truth that I couldn't pretend away.

Not Far From The Tree

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, subcultural, punk-rock, dissatisfied chick, posing as a mild-mannered, slightly-wild professional woman Stillie, presented me with the following challenge: "He watched as the topaz and silver ring spiraled, the sparkle of the stone from the moonlight slowly darkening as the ring descended to the bottom of the river." The piece below is my response.

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He watched as the topaz and silver ring spiraled, the sparkle of the stone from the moonlight slowly darkening as the ring descended to the bottom of the river.

Sitting just a few feet away on the splintering bench of the picnic table, she watched him. He'd gone stock-still the moment the ring slipped from his fingers and kerplunked into the placid water. As though his lack of motion would pause time and keep the ring from sinking to the river bed. As though, if he just stayed put, he could reverse his mistake before anyone found out.

But mistakes, once made...

Though his back was to her, she knew that he was pouting. Knew that his brow was furrowed. The very same look that she used to make when she was concentrating hard. The very same look she'd seen on his face countless times. Wondering how the lightening bugs lit or how Santa got into the apartment even though they had no chimney. Or how he was going to avoid getting in trouble for dropping the ring into the water. A five-and-dime mood ring, but treasure to a three year old.

"Maaaaa?" he shouted, turning around to look pleadingly at his mother. Taking his eyes off the place where the ring had slipped into the water just seconds before. Finally giving up on his attempt to stop time. All pouts and furrows, just as she'd suspected.

She got up from the bench and made her way the few feet to where he stood. "What happened, kiddo?"

He looked back down at the water and pointed. Then back up at his mother, tacitly imploring her to fix things. She was a grown-up, after all.

"I think it's gone for good," she concluded, peering down into the dark river, assessing the situation. Her furrowed brow a carbon copy of her son's. She crouched down until their faces were level. Blue eyes that mirrored each other. "That's what happens when you're not careful, bud."

Distraught over the loss, he threw himself into her arms. As she hugged him, she turned to bury her face in his mess of sandy blonde curls. She could smell the sweat from the day, taste the salt on her lips as she kissed her little boy. "M'sorry, Mommy," he mumbled into her shoulder.

She wished that it could always be this way. That his problems would always be so dire and that they could always be fixed by her hugs and kisses. But children grow up, and boys become men.

"Don't be sorry," she replied, leaning back from their embrace to look her son in the face. "Just be more careful next time, okay? If something is important to you, you have to take care of it."

He nodded solemnly.

"If you're careless," she continued the lesson, "you might lose something that means a lot to you, and you wouldn't want that to happen, right?"

Again, he furrowed his brow, concentrating on her words. Thinking through her line of reasoning. Suddenly his eyes lit and a smile replaced his pout.

"It doesn't matter, Mommy! I'll just get a new one!" he exclaimed.

She stood up and watched as he ran off towards the car and away from the shore. Away from the river with the dime store treasure sitting at its bottom. From the ring that, just moments before, had been so precious to him. But, no matter, precious things can be replaced when you lose them out of carelessness. Today's prize is quickly forgotten when the glitter of something new catches your eye.

She knew it was just a cheap piece of costume jewelry, but a small part of her worried that her sweet little boy might grow up to be just like his father.

Less Than Perfect

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, first and always a writer MelissaR presented me with the following challenge: "You're on a train heading to your sister's wedding. Go!" The piece below is my response.

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The doors opened on either side of the train, creating a hallway between the platforms at Jamaica station. Smoke drifting in from the passengers’ cigarettes. Quick drags before the conductor’s muffled voice announced that the train doors were about to slide closed.

I looked out of my window, squinting through the grime. Trying to look around the profanity scratched in big block letters. FUCK U. I looked through to the people standing on the platform, Their skin, doughy in the mid-day heat. Their eyes heavy. Dull. Only springing to life to glare at anyone who dared to intersect their gaze. The FUCK U as clearly etched on their faces as it was on my train window.

The announcement garbled over the loudspeaker, the bell signaled that it was time to go. People shuffled back onto the train, finding seats. Hoisting their beach bags and suitcases onto the overhead racks. We lurched forward, slowly picking up speed as we kept heading east.

I shifted in my seat, my skin sticking to the plastic where my bare legs stuck out of my dress. I hoped that the red stick-marks would fade by the time I got off the train. It was a special day and I didn’t want anything to be less than perfect for her.

Any more less than perfect.

“I’d always looked forward to having a son-in-law to help me out around the house,” my father had said when they first started dating. “And now it looks like my son-in-law is going to be my age.”

She had been twenty-three. He had been forty-three. Twenty years. Less than perfect.

They’d met in the office. He was her boss. Her boss with an ex-wife and two kids. It wasn’t what my parents wanted for her. Surely it’s a phase. Surely it won’t work out. It’s far too less than perfect.

And yet here I was, midway between Jamaica station and home, in my bridesmaid sundress with red stick-marks on the backs of my legs.

Perfect it wasn’t, for so many reasons. But that's what made it just like every other marriage.

Just like the high school sweethearts, wedded after years of dating. Like the love-at-first-sight couple, exchanging bands after the briefest of courtships. Neither perfect. Each messy in its own way. That was marriage. So much less than perfect.

The train raced along the track, carrying me further from my city and closer to my sister’s wedding. I looked past the grime, past the scratched profanity. Beyond all of the mars, to the blur of green outside.

Past all of the imperfections, because that's the only way that you can really see.

By Any Other Name

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, (mostly) happy housewife Trish presented me with the following challenge: "What's in a name?" The piece below is my response.

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Mommy when I was four years old. A head full of curls and unicorns. Playing Make Believe in the backyard, leaving carrots out for Rudie each December 24th. Mommy when I didn't know she had another name. When I believed her to be the smartest, most beautiful woman in the world.

Mom when I put away my dolls and begged for the training bra that we both knew I really didn't need. Mom through gritted teeth when I hated her from the backseat of the minivan for not taking me to the mall, not letting me join my classmates at Friendly's after the Spring Show, not letting me sign up for the cheerleading squad. Mom when I wished I had another.

Ma when I had no time to say the full word. When I plastered Doors posters to my bedroom walls and scribbled bad poetry into notebooks. When I underlined my eyes with dark kohl and let boys take me to the empty church parking lot to put their greedy hands up my kick-pleat skirt. Ma when I didn't tell her about any of that.

My Mother, now, when I'm in Manhattan and she's out on the Island. When I want to call her Mommy and cuddle on the couch, but can't even pick up the phone to call her. When we're so stubborn, so quick with the barbs. So similar. My Mother when I think she's allowing her fear to squander her life. My Mother when I'm too frustrated to deal with it anymore.

Mommy, Mom, Ma. My Mother. Different names, all for the same woman. Shifting nomenclature dictated by a daughter. By who I needed or made her to be.

But names are just words. Piles of letters, labels, and tags that change over time. That make it easy to forget that she's just a woman. With passions and reasons and fears and flaws of her own.

An imperfect person like the rest of us, no matter what her name tag says.

Glitter

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, the talented Cacophoenix presented me with the following challenge: "It is bright and cheery spring day, and you are strolling down NYC, loving life. You come near an alley and suddenly a tiny figure all sparkly pops out and says "Psst!!! Yes you! Come here!" Describe your magical journey." The piece below is my response.

~

We'd gone straight from the doldrums of late winter into the blazing heat of a New York City summer. Nothing in The Big Apple comes in half measures, and the seasons are no exception. Just the day before, I'd been shivering on my walk home from the subway. Teeth a-chatter as I raced through the biting wind, eager to curl up on my couch under the blankets. Now, less than a day later, I was trouncing around in my tank and flip-flops. Sweat prickling at the small of my back.

It was a picturesque Saturday. One that pulls you out of bed with a smile on your face. One that leaves you helpless to do anything but glide through the day, in love with your life. Or one that forces you to act that way, at least.

I'd been doing my best impression of someone who was happy for days. Blaming my gloom on that of the weather. But my excuses had vanished as quickly as the rain clouds and now, with the sun beaming down around me, I tried to shift my impression to a reality.

I ambled through Central Park. Strolling through the pathways, watching children play and dogs run through the grass. Expectant mothers stopping to sit on a park bench. Young lovers sprawled out on blankets across the lawn. Doing nothing together.

It only made things worse.

Because I couldn't see those things, those people. All I could see was thirty, looming on the horizon. One-third of my life over, done with, behind me. One-third that was too late to do anything about.

In college, those foolish late-teens and early-twenties, my life felt full of promise. The questions plentiful and dewy with anticipation. I asked myself What do you want your life to be? and saw nothing but a vast field of opportunity laid out before me. A fulfilling, successful career in the offing. A handsome, loving husband just a bit further afield. If I squinted, some tow-headed toddlers with arms outstretched. Mommy on their little cupid bow lips.

Now, one-third in the books, I felt like all of that was a mirage. An illusion. The product of a fancy education and romantic ideals. My present looked nothing like the future I'd spent all of those years trying to get to.

And no amount of beautiful, sunny days was going to fix that.

So I walked, bereft, through my future that people were living out all around me. I walked, looking at what I wanted but didn't have. Until my feet were crusted with dirt and the sunlight had given way to dusk. Out of the Park and back towards my apartment where I wouldn't have to pretend anymore.

Passing Lincoln Center, as I'd done so many times before, something made me turn my head. Lift my gaze and stop. The glitter of the pavilion beckoning me as clearly as someone calling me over. Psst!!! Yes, you! Come here!

There wasn't anyone there, urging me to lift out of my low mood. No alluring voice that I was following. But I walked up the steps just the same. Up the steps to the gelato stand that was only open for a few weeks during the summer.

My pocket three dollars lighter and my hand clutching a waffled cone, I stood at the edge of the fountain in the middle of the plaza. The water shooting upwards into the night sky, its spray hitting my skin with each breath of wind coming my way. The lights of the opera house glimmered through the geysers, a spectacular accidental light show.

Standing there, the creamy sweetness melting on my tongue and sliding down the back of my throat, I stopped acting like I was happy. I stopped acting and just was.

It might not have been a magical journey but there, standing in the midst of that early evening glitter, it was hard not to feel as though there might be a little fairy dust left in my life.

Even at almost thirty with one-third behind me.

Of Sweaters And Sticky Floors

The sweater has been draped over the arm of my couch for two weeks now. The wool, coarse and grey. The leather, soft and brown. It’s cashmere, the sweater, so it itched when I wore it. Burlap rubbing my skin raw wherever it touched. It hit me mid-thigh and the arms flopped formlessly, several inches past my hands. Like a little girl wearing a grown-up’s clothes. But I’d pulled it over my head anyway, standing in the cold at Union Square.

And now it’s been there, itching the soft, brown leather, for two weeks. Everything else in my apartment is put away, in its proper place. But not the sweater. There’s nowhere that it belongs.

When Ciaràn called to tell me he was moving to New York, I panicked. He was supposed to have stayed in last year. Supposed to have been just that one week in March. But here he was, twelve months later, moving to my city. Handing me his cashmere sweater because I was cold after brunch.

The last time we'd seen each other, before he got on his plane to save the world, his arms had encircled my waist and lifted me off the ground. Spinning me around, inches above the sidewalk, kissing me. Cue the music, roll the credits.

But I wasn't ready for the leading man to return once the house lights went up. Once my feet had returned to the ground, sticky and riddled with popcorn.

So I'd put off seeing him for more than a week. This excuse for not meeting for a drink. That excuse for not going on a walk through the park. I knew that he was eager to pick up where we'd left off. With as much conviction, I knew that I didn't want to.

I didn't want to see him casually. Meet up every few days for a glass of wine and coy flirtation over flickering candle light. For kissing under the streetlamps and then the walk back to my place. Up the stairs and onto the bed. Playacting a romance that was going somewhere when he was the only thing that was.

Nepal for six weeks. The Congo after that. Afghanistan, Pakistan, Colombia perhaps. New York in between for a week here and there. Unless he got himself kidnapped. Or killed.

So I don't want to see him casually for those weeks in between. I don't even know how. I don't know how to remind myself that the candle light and streetlamps and kissing are just scenes from a movie that's going to end. That his arms won't be around me for long. That making love is just an expression that only has meaning when you mean it.

I always start off knowing these things but, somewhere as I go along, I let myself forget.

But this time, I'm not putting myself in the position of having to remember. This time, no matter how nice it was to be warm for a while, I'm going to remind myself that he just doesn't fit.

Remind myself that there's nowhere that he belongs.

Stanza

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, the talented Marian presented me with the following challenge: "You hear your neighbors in a loud, heated argument. What next?" The piece below is my response.

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I don't ever need to meet them to know them. That's just how it is in this city.

They're above me, below me, and on either side. Most of them I never see. Others I might pass in the hallway or mumble a greeting to in the laundry room. I don't know their names. What they do or where they're from. They live only a few feet away from me and they're little more than strangers.

But I know them just the same.

I know that the guy next door has a piano that he plays every night after the smell of his dinner dissipates. A few times through the sonata and the roasted chicken is replaced with cigarette smoke. Or the haze of pot if he's playing Chopin.

I know that the dog in the downstairs apartment is lonely. I can hear it in his yelp each time someone passes the door. Eager and hopeful, hoping that it's her. Plaintive when the footfalls continue up the stairs. Why did you leave me again?

I know that my upstairs neighbor gets home from work at 6:13 and doesn't know how to close his front door quietly. I know that he walks on the backs of his heels and doesn't vacuum his apartment. His girlfriend comes over on Wednesday nights and wears her high heels until they settle in to watch TV. Then she kicks off each one in the middle of the living room and lets them fall with a sharp thud. One, then the next. They don't go to sleep until 2AM and their bed creaks when they get into it.

I know that the marriage on the other side of my bedroom wall is falling apart. I hear her shrill shouting late into the night. His deep voice bellowing in response. The words are muffled, but the anger and hurt is not. No wall can insulate against that.

Sometimes there are other noises. Things being thrown. Things breaking. Sometimes the front door creaks open only to be slammed shut behind him as he flies down the stairs and out of the building. She might follow him, screaming all they way. She might throw open the window and shout down to him as he stands there in the street. He might shout back up at her. Or, sometimes, he just walks away.

I don't know where he goes. She probably doesn't either. Strange how we, two strangers, have that in common.

But I - we - know that he's coming back. It might take a few hours, but he always does. Not in the flurry of noise and motion that ushered him out, but quietly. Softly treading up the four flights of stairs. I never hear his key in the lock. The door just opens, quietly, from inside. The soft patter of four feet crossing the threshold.

I know that the marriage on the other side of my bedroom wall is falling apart.

But I also know that there's a husband who keeps coming back. And a wife who opens the door from the inside each time.

And I know that that has to count for something.