The Story

A pale chin rested on folded hands atop the marbled bar, making her eye level with the curved crystal glass. Happy hazel eyes followed a particularly large bubble from its creation at the bottom of the drink, all the way to its joining with the sweet foam crest. Again the gaze dropped to the bottom to follow a new floated journey.

“So she never drinks it?”

“Nope,” Caroline’s laugh lines crinkled as she poured a drop of rosemary syrup into two highballs, “once every few weeks, I think it’s some sort of treat for herself.”

Neal narrowed his eyes back at her, “A treat? To order an expensive drink just to watch it go to waste? That’s not how I’d treat myself.”

“We all know how you’d treat yourself, Neal.”

Caroline passed the finished cocktails to the young couple on a date night, and made her way back over to her quietest patron.

“Doing alright over here?”

The young woman sat up slowly, appearing to have a hard time tearing her eyes from the glass to answer Caroline. “Yes ma’am, thank you.” She offered a bright smile, then relaxed back into her chair and continued her muted observations.

“And it’s always the same thing?” Jeanie, a regular who pretended she wasn’t, asked across her Moscow Mule.

“Yep,” Caroline answered, “a Prosecco with a splash of Chambord and an orange peel.”

Jeanie cut her eyes towards the conversation’s subject, “How specific to not even take a sip.”

Caroline was a little defensive over her guest, “Yes well, she knows what she likes. I think that’s alright.”

Tonight the girl wore simple gray heels with her tight jeans under a large black sweater. Her auburn waves were pulled back into a loose bun, with her glasses pushed back on her head as usual. For the first few of these visits to the high-end bar, Caroline had attempted to make conversation. She started with the usual casual bartender questions: How’s your day going? Meeting anyone here? Work near by? Sweet or strong, a bit of both? But she finally realized the young woman did not want to partake in chit chat. There had been no rudeness in her simple answers, (Fine. No. Yes. Sweet.) just a polite air of wanting to be on her own, and so Caroline left her that way. She couldn’t resist occasionally checking in, as the smile was kind and the tip left was always generous, but she did her best to leave the girl alone.

Caroline had become quite protective of her, really. Other bartenders or patrons, those regular and not, had been fascinated with the lovely scene at first. Men would try to flirt with her, women would try to shepherd her into their girls’-night-out. Caroline had begun to block these attempts before their inevitable failures interrupted her guest’s evening, but eventually that effort became unnecessary. The shimmer of the unusual lost its shine and the stares became less admiring and more concerned.

“What is she doing here again?”

“Don’t you think it’s odd? I think it’s very odd.”

“A gal like that is trouble with a capital T, mhmm. It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Maybe she’s a little… special.”

“So what if she is?” Caroline set down the bottle of cognac a little harder than she meant.

It startled the flock of gray-haired book clubbers. Their leader clutched her large string of pearls before they all settled again, not a feather askew.

“Oh, nothing’s wrong with it, dear. It’s just a bit curious, don’t you think?”

It had indeed been a bit curious to Caroline. The girl was always well dressed, but not flamboyantly so like some who wondered in from Newbury Street. Her only jewels were two small silver circles in each ear, and an impressive opal ring she wore on the middle finger of her left hand. Caroline had tried to guess what a girl like that must do. Perhaps a well-kept housewife grabbing a moment to herself? Or a young lawyer? But there was no tan line where a wedding ring would sit, and she never carried any study materials. In fact, she never carried anything with her, save a small seasonal purse. There were very few clues for Caroline to work with.

“Maybe it’s the anniversary of a death,” Neal whispered one night.

“A death every couple of weeks? That’s ridiculous.” Caroline rolled her eyes.

“Well maybe she’s a hitman… hit-woman. And she celebrates her most recent target, but can’t drink because it could effect her aim.”

Caroline watched the young woman peering into the glass as if it was sharing secrets. “No, I don’t think she’s a hitman.”

“A spy then, and there’s someone here she’s watching!” One of a young couple in front of them offered, comically glancing to the groups around them.

“John that’s ridiculous.” His partner nudged him, “she’s way too obvious out in the open like that to be a spy.”

“Best place to hide is right under the nose!” John laughed into his mojito.

Caroline did not think this was the case either. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but the girl seemed too innocent to be up to anything scandalous or mischievous, and Caroline had seen plenty of both. She’d served Cabernet Sauvignon to politicians whose dates were not their wives. She’d shaken martinis for a gentleman with no name who left foreign coins as a tip. She’d poured a round of shots for both bachelor and bachelorette parties busy breaking the vows they intended to make the following morning. So Caroline felt quite apt at telling the reputable from the unseemly, and the girl was certainly the former.

“Oh, she’s just in love. I know that look.”

Caroline refilled Pepper’s French 75 with a grin. Pepper was the most spritely and charming 80-year-old that had ever walked through the door, and was therefore beloved by all who worked there. Of course, the lavish tips helped too. Pepper would say she didn’t want to carry around her small bills anymore- and set down a $50. Caroline knew Pepper inherited several successful businesses from a late husband, but Caroline never asked which ones, and Pepper never offered.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Just look at those big eyes, doll. I could swim in them! Wear my little polka-dot-bikini and nose dive right into ’em.” Pepper gave a little shimmy as if it proved her point.

“She’s not in love, Pepper. She just likes to watch the bubbles.”

“Mmmhmm, no that girl is in love. And hard for it.” Pepper shrugged her mink coat onto the chair back, a sure sign she was settling in for a long night. Caroline was thrilled.

“And with who? She always comes alone.” Caroline felt like a mother and grandmother gossiping over their baby girl.

“That girl’s not alone!” Pepper threw her head back with a saucy laugh. “Look at her, does she look alone to you?”

Caroline considered the small woman, and realized that no, she did not look alone. Those who came to bars alone had certain goals, and they made them evident very quickly. A young man who came in to kill some time before a date smiled big, leaned on the bar, ordered whatever was on tap. The older men on their own hunched the shoulders low into their seats, as if they could shelter their Old Fashioneds from whatever the world had hurled at them. The single ladies showed up for eligible bachelors, or to appear like a damsel from a novel, sitting crosslegged in a short dress, waiting for a director to yell ACTION. Well, and Pepper. Pepper came alone, but she was never stayed alone. She made friends with whoever sat next to her, friends with the hostess, the bartender. By the time she would leave she’d be everyone’s favorite playmate and number one confidant.

So maybe Pepper would know.

“I’m gonna go talk to her.”

Caroline was whipped out of her thoughts, “What? No, no don’t, she likes to be on her own.”

Pepper was already gathering her drink and napkin, “I told you, she’s not alone. She’s just by herself.”

“I just don’t think she’ll want to-”

But Pepper shot Caroline a stare that told her to hush. It made Caroline feel young and loud. She quickly busied herself wiping down already pristine glasses as she quietly watched the encounter.

Pepper slowly situated herself in the tall chair next to the girl, setting her drink down close to the un-touched glass of expensive bubbles. Caroline watched the two of them just sit, saying nothing to one another. It was oddly beautiful.

After several long moments, and to Caroline’s shock, the girl leaned over to speak softly to Pepper. Pepper nodded back, and they continued to watch their glasses together. Oh how Caroline wished she knew what had been said.

Another moment passed, and Caroline was glad for the muscle memory that created two Pisco Sours for the set of gentlemen that joined the bar. She was entranced by the women sitting together. Was the girl too polite to ask Pepper to leave? Should she intercede?

They seemed alright on their own, and although she wanted to simply stand and watch, the after-dinner rush was making its usual demands. Between the Sidecars and Sazeracs, Caroline was only able to spare an occasional glance to Pepper and her companion. Every time they seemed to be fine, each fascinated with her own cocktail, and so Caroline continued the stirring and shaking and pouring and smiling.

When orders finally began to slow, Caroline quickly gathered restock from the back room, intent on just walking over and doing a full recon on Pepper and the girl. She set the bottles in front of Neal for organizing and then turned- but they were gone. Two empty seats were all that was left of the rare little exchange. Caroline was a bit jealous. All this time she’d spent thinking the girl was kind of hers to protect, yet Pepper somehow got through the young woman’s carefully constructed shell. She sighed, admonishing herself for the silly feeling, and wiped down the bar where the ladies had been.  Carrying their glasses to the sink, she froze, stunned by what she held: two beautiful, crystal, empty glasses.

The Word

Effervescent (Adjective): 1. (of a liquid) Giving off bubbles; fizzy. 2. Vivacious and enthusiastic.

People-watching is probably my favorite sport. I love finding a good place to practice it, and these are often cozy old coffee shops or brand new bookstores, the occasional hip downtown bar. Despite what Lifestyle movies will tell you, it’s not parks or county fairs because people are there for a reason. The best places to see interesting people and wonder about their story are the places people are drawn to, without a full reason, to just be whatever kind of fascinating specimen they are.

I think effervescent is an extremely underused adjective. It’s usually reserved for drinks, but I think we’ve all had a few bubbly, fizzy feelings in our time. How better to describe when a cute date first takes your hand? Or the anticipation when you’ve completed something worthy of pride, but have yet to present it? Or even walking the streets of a vacation town? It’s so often seen for its first soda-describing definition that we forget how much better life is when it’s a little more vivacious and enthusiastic.

Bubbles usually make me think of spring, and today we got eight inches of snow. But as I was thinking on the nature goddesses (stay tuned for them and their word), I realized there was that floaty feeling in the snowflakes too. It was in the way they danced back and forth, how they covered over the scars of roads and sidewalks on the earth, and how they really do fall on your nose and eyelashes*.

Just as the girl watched her bubbles, and Caroline watched the girl, today I watched my curious kitten watch the snow today, and it was beautiful.

Cheers to more effervescence in our lives! Which I guess is cheers to… more cheers!

*If you don’t get this reference, go watch Sound of Music and get back to me.

New to the blog? Welcome! You might enjoying checking out Today I am Carry first!

The Story

He loved to visit the library on sunny days. There wasn’t a single living soul there besides him and the cliché grandmother of a librarian. Everyone else on the small campus would be out enjoying the beautiful day of clear skies that rarely visited these Northern mountains. But not Pete.

He’d join the lads for a game of pick-up soccer when it was gray, and he was always happy to buy a round of drinks at the bar on a snow day. But between his rambunctious group of friends, the 23 hours of credits he carried that semester, and his mother calling every hour to see if he’d found her a daughter-in-law yet, there were very few quiet moments in Pete’s life. So he took them when he could get them.

The librarian, Mrs. Greensworth, smiled genuinely at him. She was used to his visits.

“A day in the shade, dear?” She called.

“Yes ma’am, just a bit of light reading per usual.”

“Alright love, just be safe in the horror section!” She laughed at her own joke and it did cause Pete a small chuckle.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Without looking at the caller he turned the switch to silent,  and headed towards the second floor. This floor held the more “boring” books. Rather than the fantasy, non-fiction, and new biographies that covered the first floor, the shelves up here were filled with history books and the out-of-date science books the library refused to trash. It was rare for anyone to pass up the first floor for the second. He always headed towards the back of the large room as well, just in case there was someone who came in to talk to Mrs. Greensworth, or a student with a paper due that evening who needed the computers. The packed shelves allowed him to avoid even those small sounds of conversation and panicked printing from floating towards him.

The history books were the easiest to get lost in anyway. They themselves came from different ages. There were cloth-covered books that he imagined the grandfathers of his gray-haired professors had once studied. Right next to these were brand new books in slick plastic sleeves, written when something new was discovered, or if someone felt differently about Napoleon than anyone else ever had before… again. There were middle-aged books wearing covers crinkled from years of being thrown into bookbags and slammed onto desks. Pete loved to run his fingers down a row to feel how the bindings changed as he went back and forth through time.

He plucked one at random, decided he didn’t like the angry warrior on the front, and replaced it again. He found one with no picture on the front at all. Alexander and the Ages, the title read. Conquerors were always good reads. They were half legend in their own minds already, so the features written on them were rarely disappointing. It was interesting to Pete that the mythical births and battles of these men could capture even the most realistic historians. True, it was their job to also mention the folk lore surrounding their subject, but when discussing Alexander the Great or Gengis Kahn, Sargon or Caesar, the writers always seemed to get caught up in what could not possibly be true of these mortal men. Right next to exact dates of archeological finds or references to proven archival texts, they would describe inhuman strength or divine premonitions. Pete figured there were just some people too powerful to explain.

Libraries never really had those big comfy chairs like they did in movies about attractive, tastefully-artistic people. So Pete choose to sit right on the floor with his back against shelf Aa-Br instead of any of the creaking wooden seats scattered around. He opened the large book at random, found himself partway through a chapter on the battle of Granicus. Settling into his spot between the shelves, he turned a page, and closed his eyes.

This was the most perfect sound in the world: This not-silence of crisp pages turning in an empty room. The soft scrape of finger across fine edge led to the delicate breath of the page resting upon the next. He found it enraptured him like a Monk at prayer, and he always felt Enlightenment was not so far off in those moments.

He turned another page. As the quiet deepened, it was as if all around him blurred out of time and reality. He felt the book begin to hum, a swollen rustling, through the muted space of it all.

…it was the first of three great battles, and each was deemed the world’s worst and last of its kind.

Another page.

He bowed low, as was the custom in this new realm…

Soon, as they always did, the surrounding books joined in the muffled hymn. The words came deep out of time and across the vast world to whisper to him.

There is legend that the great Pirate Queen was never defeated, but that she escaped to…

…and then they discovered the pressure on a keystone would serve to hold the weight.

Another page.

…with the king’s death, the kingdom was left with no heir. This was met with…

It would take the next 120 years for the road to be completed.

She had low social status by birth, yet being chosen by the emperor made her…

Both a warrior and artist, he wanted his army to continue at his side even after death.

Another page.

…and so they built a city between the two mountains.

This style was to protect them from the sun, but it also served as a symbol of…

…sadly its location is lost to history…

A loud THUMP and short gasp shocked Pete into the present.

“OW! Damn damn shit damn!”

He peeked around the shelf to see the exclaimer was a young woman on the floor holding her foot.

Mrs. Greensworth was shuffling quickly up the stairs,”Oh, love, are you alright?” She leaned down to the crumpled girl, “I saw you headed up with an armful and was worried they’d be too much! Come now, lets see it. Oh you got it good there.”

Pete watched the ladies gather the scattered books for a moment. He shook the last of his serene enchantment in the shelves from his mind and stood to go help them.

“Hey, you alright? These are some heavy tomes to drop on a toe.”

“Yeah,” she looked up at him with eyes bright and sweet as cinnamon sugar, “I didn’t know anyone was up here, sorry for the noise.”

“Not, not a problem,” he stuttered. He’d come back, he always came back to the whispered worlds. “Studying for an exam?”

“No, she’s my new assistant!” Mrs. Greensworth beamed. She patted Pete’s arm and gave him a quick wink, “Help Liza get these ones where they belong, will you?”

She turned to Liza, “Pete knows this floor better than me, dear. You’ll be alright up here with him.”

Pete continued to rearrange the stack of books to hide the blush rising up his cheeks as Mrs. Greensworth sauntered away.

“Oof, I think I’ve given myself a good little bruise there.”

“Yeah,” he glanced down at her floral sandals. A blueberry bruise was forming at the base of one pink-painted pinky toe. “These guys up here don’t always like to behave, gotta watch out for them.”

Liza laughed, and he liked the sound.

The Word

Susurrus (adjective): Full of whispering sounds. (noun): a whisper or rustling sound.

To get this out of the way: Yes, this is indeed Pete from our first story. I loved writing his romantic personality so much that I wanted to give a little background to how he became that way, and today’s word/story seemed appropriate for that. And then I just couldn’t help but have Liza show up! Note: How do we feel about “bright and sweet as cinnamon sugar” to say that her eyes are a pretty brown? I always wondered why authors never gave girls brown eyes, but now I get it! I’m determined though, so expect several brown-eyed-beauties to show up this year.

I think we all have those little sounds that impress a deep, almost unexplainable feeling upon us. For me, it’s the melody of a gold-edged Bible I had when I was younger. Almost every Sunday, a few moments after the pastor would start his sermon, there was a lovely shade of quiet. Everyone would be settled in- the choir had sat back down, Mr. Ashworth had finished retrieving a peppermint from his pocket, and no one’s leg had fallen asleep yet to make them jiggle against the pew. With just the pastor’s voice echoing in the large room, I would turn one of those thin gold pages. I thought it was the most beautiful, fascinating sound in the world.

Susurrus. I love this word. How is something FULL of whispers? A whisper can’t fill anything, can it? Its whole purpose is to not be a full voice, just a quiet imitation of one. And if a whisper is quiet enough, and we cannot make out the words, is it then just rustled breath? Or does it still count as a whisper?

We have been through a very LOUD season in an extremely LOUD world. Don’t get me wrong, I love the noise of family in the holidays (the best naps are in the middle of a warm room of laughing people, aren’t they?) but there is certainly something to be said for quiet. Though I don’t think it’s really silence we’re looking for when we want time to ourselves. Silence is lonely and cold. I think we’re looking for time to listen to those whispers, whether it’s of the world around us trying to say something or the words inside us we can’t often hear. Our hearts and souls and heads are constantly susurrus. The trees outside on a sunny day are susurrus, the little bonsai and aloes hiding in my apartment through winter, are all susurrus too. And I’ve yet to meet someone who has stood on a mountain who would claim it had nothing to say.

So today I was quiet (shocker, for anyone who has even briefly met me) and tried to listen to the whispers outside and within. It was nice. The small sounds seemed to echo to me and I liked it. They are indeed filling. It was a small reprieve from the noise always outside, sometimes inside. I hope you too find somewhere quiet, but never silent, to listen.

 

The Story

“Aren’t they just so gorgeous?”

“I don’t know if a cupcake can qualify as ‘gorgeous,’ Annie.”

“Of course they can! Especially that one.” She bent down to get a closer look at the Bavarian Creme’ Frosted Chocolate. “Helloooooo, beautiful!”

“I thought you weren’t eating sweets this month.”

“I’m not,” she sighed, straightening again, “but I like to window shop.” She smiled back at him, then turned to continue her intimate gaze with the Strawberry Champagne With Rainbow Sprinkles on the top row.

“Won’t that just make it worse? To know you can’t have it?” He watched her watch the pastries. She kind of looked like one her self today- what with sparkling silver joggers and a puffy orange jacket zipped up right to her freckled face. He imagined she’d be in the row of Tangerine Buttercream On Spice Cake.

“Nope. They’re pretty. I like looking at pretty things.”

He raised his eyebrow at her in response.

“Okay Danny, fine yes I’d like to stuff them all in my mouth BUT I’d want to do that either way and admiring them is more fun!” She laughed as they continued their walk downtown.

Now that he agreed with. Looking and not having was certainly more fun than not looking at all.

“Whyyyy did they have to schedule a meeting on the coldest night of the year?” She whined, pausing again. This time she was peering into the window of the Chocolatier de’ Paris.

“It’s monthly, it’s not like they picked it on purpose. And if someone had been on time, we could’ve gotten a parking spot on the street instead of back in the lot.”

“I couldn’t find my shoes!” She said to the truffles.

He tugged her arm, “Come on, we’re already late. Jack’s gonna have one of his hissy fits.”

She pulled him back towards her and the chocolates instead, “Well he can throw a fit all he wants. The festival isn’t for five more months, we have plenty of time. Oh look at THAT sexy thing!” She was pointing to a white bonbon with a syrupy swirl drawn on its dome. “Think it’s caramel?”

“Nope. Looks more like tar. Maybe soy sauce.”

“Ewww, Danny. You’re ruining it!”

He chuckled, “What? I’m helping! I’m making them less tempting for you.”

She shot him an exasperated look but started again to walk with him.

“I can’t believe he’s making us meet in this vegan deli. I bet they don’t even have a dessert bar. Probably just like… a kale smoothie bar.”

“The deli was your idea, genius. You said with everyone on a New Years diet, it was the safest place.”

“Well someone should have stopped me. It was a terrible idea.”

“Becky seemed to like it. I think she’s crazier than you though, going without meat for a whole year.”

Annie tucked a stray blond lock back into her beanie, “Pfft, I saw her sneaking beef jerky the other day. ‘New year, new me’ my ass.”

“Says the no sweets girl hypnotized by the Go Do-Nuts sign.” Although he had to admit, the pink neon light washing over her was quite appealing. It seemed to turn her into something unworldly, as if she was radiating a strange light on her own. He wanted to bathe in that light of hers. It was so warm, so lovely.

“Oh shut up,” she smirked. “Did you even make a resolution for the year?”

“Hm?” he rattled his thoughts back to reality, “ahhh, nope. Nope, no resolution. Don’t need one if you’re already perfect.” He started walking again so she wouldn’t notice he was also radiating a bit pink.

“Dan!” She caught up to him, “come on, Danny. You need one, it’s good to start the year trying something new.”

“Like torturing myself as you are?”

“It’s not torture!” She huffed, “It’s growth. And when the month is over, I’ll pick a new one for February. Preferably I’ll be picking it while digging into a pile of java-chip waffles.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Alright, if you don’t make one up for yourself, I’ll make one for you.”

“Oh?” His heart rate picked up. Having her in charge of anything for him was probably not safe. Eyes forward, he pulled his scarf a little tighter as if it could shield against more than the wind. “And what should I give up for the year?”

“Or month.”

“Or month, sure.”

“Hmmm…” She stopped to think in front of the Galaxy Diner. There was no window display here, but he knew she was imagining the vanilla shake with Reese Pieces mixed in. It’s what she’d order every time their DnD club had met there, whether it was 11am for brunch or 11pm for drinks.

“What if instead of giving something up, Mr. Perfect, you add something on.”

“Like what?” he asked. Like you? 

“Like your ukulele. I’ve never seen you play it. It just there on your bookshelf.”

“I’ve played it! It’s just… been a while.”

“How long?” She quirked a mocking eyebrow towards him.

“A bit.”

“Can you play anything?”

“I’ll have you know that my performance of Row Row Row Your Boat brought my old roommates to tears.”

“Most likely those tears were when you finally stopped.”

They glared at each other for a moment. He loved it.

“Fine.”

“YES!” She jumped a bit and he laughed at her exuberance, “by the end of the year, you have to be able to play a song with at least 5 notes in it.”

“Alright well that sounds doable, a whole year to-”

“You’re right, too doable.”

“Wait, no-”

“By my birthday.”

“By your birthday? That’s in like three months!”

“Your problem, not mine,” she winked before taking off across the street.

“Annie!” He dodged a biker and a Hyundai to get to her, “Annie, there are crosswalks for a reason!”

“Yes but if I’d waited until the crosswalk, I wouldn’t be able to smell the coffee shop from the other side, and it’s hot chocolate season.”

As they passed Who Let the Beans Out, she took in a huge breath and let it out with a satisfied smile.

It sent a bolt of lightening down his throat, that smile. He took a deep breath as well, noting the slight spice of her perfume riding the sweet scent of hot chocolate.

“Um, well, why don’t we just stop in for a cup then?”

She pursed her lips at him, “No sweets! Don’t tease me! And you just said we’re going to be late.”

He suddenly didn’t mind if they were late. She was right, the Beer & Taco Fest wouldn’t be held for several more months, so what was missing one planning meeting? By the time the festival finally got started there will have been lots more time for preparations. The world will have shaken off the chill of winter and he’d still be organizing vendors, regretting not sitting with her to drink a warm cup of hot chocolate.

“Maybe a little temptation is okay.”

He wasn’t sure which one of them he was speaking to.

The Word

Yearn (verb): 1. To have an intense feeling of longing for something, typically something that one has lost or been separated from. 2. To be filled with compassion or warm feeling.

It’s January, which means it is a fresh year to start over, to grow, to become something new. It also means there are a lot of people in my gym who I have never seen before. I’m mildly concerned about one guy in particular that is using the rowing machine backwards. But these newbies are working on a resolution. They’re trying to create a new healthy habit or rid themselves of a bad one. I try to remember this when I find a stranger already using my favorite treadmill.

I made a resolution of my own. My boyfriend, coworkers, and I are all participating in Dry January. This means no alcohol of any sort until February the 1st. We have all discovered it’s a little harder than it sounded originally. It’s not like any of us have a problem, but it turns out that glass of red wine at the end of a tiring day really made a big difference. So we’re trying to make big differences in other ways: yoga, running, meditation, occasionally buying too much at Sephora to avoid eating an entire chocolate cake. You know, normal healthy things.

There are all kinds of statistics out there that say most New Years resolutions fail. Then there are the articles and self-help books that encourage you to keep going with your goals, how to still have your resolution in April and all that. Of course they all mention that one of the problems with resolutions is the feeling of denying yourself something you want. We’re human, we like us, we like to give us things we like. It makes sense. But it making sense doesn’t stop the yearning.

The little non-couple in today’s story is full of yearning; she for sweets, him for her. They are both denying themselves something that would make them happy. She’s probably doing it for health, but we don’t get to know why he is. I left this ambiguous, because the why isn’t really what’s important here. It’s the pain and conflict of self-denial that I wanted to think on.

This year, I want our resolution to be to give ourselves more. Maybe instead of saying we’re not eating any bread ever again, we give ourselves the chance to try new things so that BOOM we find out roasted Brussel sprouts are pretty good! Instead of denying ourselves of downtime, lets give our selves patience to learn the ukulele. Lets run the extra mile, and give our bodies strength. Lets give ourselves kindness. Lets stop denying ourselves these things for the New Year.

And lets eat the damn cupcake.

The Story

The Christmas bonus she received was small, shorter than the gossamer email that accompanied it from the company’s CEO. She knew that a young professional, such as herself, should proudly deposit it into her shiny new savings account rather than on one of the shiny things sparkling in the downtown windows. But then again, ’twas the Christmas season and she always liked to treat herself when all the present-buying for others was done. The season of giving should include one’s self, right?

Her first thought had been a new computer keyboard. If she was going to be a full-time research analyst now, she was going to need to occasionally type the letter “u”. Her current keyboard was ironically unreliable about that. Then she considered a new coffee pot which sounded way more fun to shop for, especially in the fancy kitchen store downtown. She was only a block and a half away from it and three solid reasons listed to justify the purchase when the Joyful Interiors shop sign caught her eye. Noting that she had time enough on the parking meter for a short detour, she stepped inside.

Though the cool marble of kitchen islands and glass-topped side tables were enticing, she habitually searched for a “Sale” or “Clearance” section when entering a new store. A small yellow sign told her these items were in the back left corner, so there she went. Situated among the returned-items carts were bookshelves with a few scratches, an armoire with a bent drawer pull, and a couple wilting silk plants. And that chair. What a find! Crossing quickly to the beautiful lounge seat, she ran through its possible inequities which had landed it in the back corner. Perhaps a leg was short? Or a large scratch through the back fabric? She circled the object like a hawk on pray. Surely the missing silver upholstery tacks along only about four inches of the skirt was not the sin sending it 75% off? Tenderly, she risked taking a seat, bracing for a spring or frame to give out. Instead, she released a quiet hum of joy when she sat on the fully plumped cushion and remained aloft. This side of the tag stated it had once been a floor sample, though she hardly considered that a defect. Did most people?  From her little throne, she admired the diamond pattern faded through just the right shades of navy and gray to remind her of ocean storm waves. She curled into the tall back, only vaguely aware how strange she looked making herself at home in the back of a furniture store. With a sigh, she decided this chair was supposed to be in her life.

She ran her hands down the curved arms and she was grasping them tightly as she laughed along with the book club about an obscure author’s attempt at metaphor. There were plates of hummus and vegetables across the coffee table, but only crumbs were left of her famous chive biscuits. The ladies were enjoying themselves in her lovely home and she noted that after they chose the book for next month, it would be time to bring out dessert.

Her head rested back against the etched fabric and she was cradling her firstborn. So sturdy and fragile at the same time, the small bundle murmured in his sleep. She hummed slow versions of rock anthems as her father had to her when she was a baby. A warmth filled her, and she wondered if the tired young father had known he’d start a tradition when he got sick of lullabies.

Freckled fingers found the smooth silver studs outlining the edge of the chair frame, and she was talking to her partner about the deal she got on it as they chose a pattern for its reupholstering after years of wear. They laughed over the impulsive buy of a young lady, which started a long discussion on the joyful mistakes made by the ignorance of youth. She enjoyed these talks, which ebbed and flowed, dipping into deeper realms before coming back to the surface with bubbles of casual fondness.

She crisscrossed her legs like a child into the wide seat cushion. Now she was reading aloud, perhaps from a book of her own making, to a rapt audience in her small library. They cheered for the righteous, booed the villain, and echoed her joy back to her when good won over evil. Someone dear came and leaned on the chair’s arm, telling her how lovely the evening had been.

Her eyes followed the falling lines of pattern and she was heartbroken from some small tragedy, holed up in a safe place with a blanket clutched tightly to her chest. A familiar voice asked to be let into the room but she wanted to be left alone in her chair, where she could weep in peace. She needed to crumble in on herself there before standing back up against the reality of what had happened. Whatever it was that would happen.

Even with the sale markdown, the chair was a stretch against that treasured bonus. Surely though, this was an investment piece. It would be foolish not to purchase, really. This chair had been hers all along, had it not? Built for her alone. It had just taken them some time to find one another, like a set of imminent lovers who must mature and grow in preparation of their fated meeting. Choice made, fate sealed, she did not register the older couple admiring the mahogany table a mere foot away, or hear the cash register ding through a set of jade bookends. She was cuddled somewhere in a sunroom, in a house not yet built, listening to someone shuffle around in a kitchen years away.

The Word

Foretaste (noun): A sample or suggestion of something that lies ahead.

So I have this chair. Well actually, I have two of them. They didn’t come from a small boutique downtown, but a large furniture warehouse in a city pretty much made of large furniture warehouses. But I did close my eyes when I first sat in it and knew that this chair and I were destined for one another. After fixing up that wobbly right leg and enjoying my comfy throne for a full year, I found its match and they now happily sit together in my small living room.

When I first sat down in this chair several years ago, I made a few notes about what a lovely story that magical feeling would make. I found those notes today while searching for inspiration, and decided to find a word to match it. Is this cheating my own system, going backwards? After discovering foretaste, the rest of the tale simply fell into place. It got me thinking about cause and effect, and of course the butterfly wing that can create a storm. There are little choices we make that echo back to us in ways we can’t imagine quite as vividly as our little shopper did in today’s story. but certainly in a way that imprints upon us. My memories of these chairs don’t match the ones above, but I can tell you I sat and read my favorite stories in them. I cried through a tough breakup curled up in one. I had my first solo conversation with the lovely lady that would become my sister-in-law as she sat in one, with my cat sitting on the back cushion batting at her hair. My boyfriend and helpful coworker fought over who would lift these heavy things up to my new third floor apartment while my father quietly took one and went up the stairs on the kind of long tiring day only loved ones will tolerate. Each one of these moments help to charter my experience, and therefore who I am. These things we collect and thrust value upon can give us glimpses of who we’ll be, and where we are going- like a little sample of our futures, an appetizer for the next era.

I don’t think when I first sat in my coveted blue chair on a shopping trip with my parents in a country town that I knew I’d set it down in a matching blue apartment of  my own in a busy city. But I did know I was going places, and that I’d want a comfy place to sit and admire all the work I’d done to get to wherever those places would be, are still going to be.

I’m a little self-concious about how short this word’s story is. However, I already have plans for revisiting this chair and it’s owner in other stories to come, so we’re all going to have to consider this an introduction. Almost like a… suggestion of something that lies ahead (see what I did there?).

So with that said, on this quiet Sunday evening following a lovely sunny day, I think I will make a cup of tea, and go sit in my chair.

Here’s to a lovely, word-filled week 🙂

The Story

He’s handsome, I’ll give him that. But looks can only get you so far in a place like this. And really, the fact that I can’t see a scar or even a blemish means he’s never been in a real fight.

Yet here he is, on my turf. The fool.

I’ve seen lots just like him step up to the challenge. Men with arms thick as oaks, who threw their big bodies around as if it would impress. But I am quick and the saying is true- the harder they fall, indeed.

It’s the small ones I find more interesting. They try to read me, feel me out. An impossible, but respectable, approach. Those ones keep their distance, dancing the grapevine of pre-engagement, shifting their weight from foot to foot. They’re fun to tease, and I’m not the only one that thinks it. So I lean right, I lean left. They’re always watching- but never close enough. These light-weights stick around a bit longer than the big boys, yet still each and every one of them has been dropped eventually.

This guy can’t be more than 210, 215. He’s toned but not that tall. A real shame that I’ll have to knock that smooth smirk off his face.

My handler is speaking with him. He’s a good guy, my handler. Always warms them up so there’s at least a little entertainment before the throw down. Each time he welcomes them in, shows them the ring. Sometimes if it’s late he’ll make sure they’re fresh- feed and water them so they have at least half a chance. But then it’s time, and they turn to me. I never disappoint and then they go. We are an excellent, unbeatable team. My handler says they’re starting to say my name far and wide, in the bigger cities. He says we’re going there soon. Maybe in the big cities there will be some better competition.

However my handler seems a little off tonight. He’s speaking less, listening more. I don’t like it. Routine is the key to victory.

He sets his hand on the new comer’s arm and speaks low. Hmm. This guy must be nervous to face me, gotta be warmed up. Pathetic.

Finally, they turn to me. It’s time.

The challenger advances, steady with a confidence I can tell is faked. Slowly, clearly unseen, I tense my powerful legs. They are my favorite weapons.

He bends a knee to the ground, as if to lift off and pounce, but loses his balance and has to reach out his arm to steady himself. The waltz has barely started and he’s already faltered. That’s boring. I consider playing with him, but it is late and I am tired of the weaklings.

With his hand mere inches from my faces I THUMP. Again, HARD and LOUD. He pulls back, the coward, and I advance on him. I thrive on the fear I see in his eyes. It’s a quick flash through his baby blues but I catch it and it is delicious. He forces a chuckle to pretend he’s unafraid, but it’s too late- it is done.

My handler pulls the guy back by the shoulder, extracting him to what they pretend is safe distance from me. No distance is safe from me. Then like a good handler, he calms the poor contestant before sending him on his way.

It was a short bout. I thought this one might actually last longer than the others. A disappointment he didn’t, really.

It’s time for my reward though. My handler presents me with several delicious treats while messaging my right thigh. I’ll admit I’m no young buck, so although it’s a little embarrassing, I appreciate the warm rubs loosening the tight muscle.

“Oh Sir Fluffington, think we’ll ever find the one?”

Not here. I need a warrior with more experience. One that’s more agile, more confident.

“He was pretty cute. Not too smart though. But of course you noticed that part.”

Of course.

“Ah well. He’s out there. Until then, I think it’s bed time for both of us, yes?”

He picks me up, rubbing the sweet spot from the tip of my nose to between my long ears. This always makes me a bit sleepy, but when he sets me down in my nest of hay and a pillow I have expertly torn to comfier pieces, I send him a stare to let him know I’m still aware, still paying attention like always. He scratches my chin and places one more piece of butter lettuce close by in case I get hungry in the night.

“Goodnight sweet bun, sleep tight.”

Another contender taken care of. Time to rest.

The Word

Contender (noun): One that contends. A competitor for a championship or high honor.

One of my brothers owns a Flemish Giant, which is a breed of rabbit that has the ability to grow to an average of 15 pounds. They’re kinda like to bunnies what the Maine Coon is to regular house cats, and they have the attitude to back it up.

Like most people who call themselves Writers, I like to dabble in playing opposites. From today’s word, you might thing we were going to meet a young athlete or perhaps a fiery mercenary. Well, to Mr. Snippy (the inspiration for Sir Fluffington), we did. He’s just a little shorter than Alexander the Great, but the heart and determination is the same, and I imagine he takes weeding out his human’s dates as seriously as one would conquering the Persian Empire. That’s my internal lesson for the day: I may be short and fluffy, but I am strong and those who challenge me should do so with caution.

That, and sometimes a little attitude is a good thing.

The Story

The cheese plate is beautiful. Centered around a small crystal bowl of capers, neatly stacked squares of havarti, a pad of mild brie, and large triangles of a wine-soaked cheddar make for an artful presentation. Scattered around the edges are slices of ripe red apple, more for color than anything else.

As she sets it down on the glass coffee table, collecting empty cups and discarded napkins as she goes, she knows this beautiful cheese plate is the only thing she has gotten right all week. Over the past few days she burnt the toast for the cucumber sandwiches, spilt wine on Great Aunt Marie, put banana flavor into the lemon cake (which already had ground chili instead of cinnamon), and only noticed the white cat fur covering the bottom two inches of her black dress right before it was her turn to to speak in front of everyone at the service.

And then of course, the service proved not good enough anyway for the elder Mrs. Lindbogen, which should have been expected. She wailed loudly about the lack of burial even though there had been specific instructions for cremation and an urn already picked out over a year ago when the diagnosis came. But what did a man’s dying instructions mean to his poor, grieving mother? Nothing. Not at such a “drab” funeral anyway. The flowers? Atrocious. The music? Too casual. The eulogies? Tacky. Even the poor rabbi didn’t stand a chance, because Mrs. Lindbogen had wanted hers from Wisconsin flown in to perform, but no one volunteered to cover the cost.

Liza couldn’t help but see the irony in such a weighted, drawn-out event for a man that had weighed next to nothing at his death, and hated any social gathering requiring a suit. This got her in trouble too, though, because the little smile that escaped onto her cheeks was misinterpreted by her mother-in-law to be “callous and unrighteous. ”

And now she’s been caught slipping on Pete’s loafers to walk Snowball and Raisin through the yard.

Pete’s sister Sarah stood before her, hands on rounded hips, eyes darting between the shoes and Liza’s large, caught-deer eyes, “Mother will have to know. She’ll want to speak to you about this.”

“No no,” Liza stutters, “she doesn’t. Snowball had to go, and Raisin had to come too, you know. Your mom doesn’t want to leave her spot to take them out so I just grabbed the first pair of shoes I saw and-”

“Leather shoes. Do the rules of Shivah mean nothing to you?”

“Well, of course they do, but they’re Pete’s and-”

“The leather shoes belonging to a dead Jew makes it worse, not better, Liza.”

A dead Jew? My dead HUSBAND. Pete doesn’t give a shit what shoes I wear to take his mother’s rotweilers out. He didn’t like them anyway. But you wouldn’t know he’s a cat person, would you, bitch? 

When they had first moved to Georgia, there had been no fewer than three parties thrown for them by complete strangers. The neighborhood had a Welcome Cook Out, the teachers at Pete’s school had the couple join them for a Sunday brunch, and even Liza’s new boss at the firm had taken them out to dinner with his wife and a few of the higher-ups. Had their new friends not all been so sweet and so funny, the macaroni casseroles and peach pie served at each event would have won Liza and Pete over anyway. They felt like they’d found paradise off route 516.

Liza had been determined to join the ranks of Perfect Hostesses that all their neighbors appeared to be inducted within.

“We’re Northern, love. You’re not supposed to know how to bake anything without apples. Just make your mom’s loaf again, they’ll love it.”

“No Pete, these are pie people! And I can’t keep showing up to things with apple strudel, they’ll get tired of it, and then they’ll get tired of us, and then we won’t have any couple friends and we’ll just be by ourselves and then YOU’ll get tired of my apple strudel and you’ll leave me.”

“Okay okay okay-” He took the whisk out of her hands, immediately throwing it in the sink as he discovered the whole handle was covered in sticky batter, “first of all, I will never get tired of the world’s best cinnamon apple strudel. Second-

“But!”

“SECOND,” He turned his flour-covered wife from the counter and tucked her into his chest, “if you really want to learn to bake other things, we’ll get you a cookbook. Maybe some lessons. And we’ll invite Betsy over to help. But for now, how about just adding a caramel drizzle to change things up so your head can stop calculating how many strudels it’ll take to pay for a divorce attorney.”

“Curnweatshleashgtafnseedtcrt?” She asked into his shirt.

“Yes, yes, we’ll get a fancy drink cart before Friday night, I promise. Now lets throw all this out and order Chinese. I’ll get apples for you after work tomorrow.”

She eyed him suspiciously, “Caramel drizzle?”

“Caramel drizzle, chocolate drizzle, flavored whipped creams- we have lots to work with before they try to evict us.”

A Perfect Hostess would be calm in this situation. Betsy would smile and suck it up until she could complain to me about her horrid guests over a spiked ice tea.

“Well now I know about the shoes. Won’t make the mistake again, terribly sorry.”

“We’ll see.” Sarah huffs away back to the living room.

Liza kicks off the offending loafers and throws the neon green doggy bag in the bin. She pretends to tidy the mud room while she cools down, moves the piles of laundry around a bit to let herself think she’s accomplishing things.

Run back to mommy in MY living room, where your fat butt has sat for six days on MY couch eating MY food pretending to mourn MY husband just to please YOUR mother who has no idea her son hasn’t been practicing in nine years. But SURE, we’ll see.

Her eyes land on the loafers again. She peaks around the doorframe and seeing the coast is clear, slides her feet back into them. Her toes reach to just the bottom of the imprints his left behind, and she curls them to feel the smooth canyons.

He wore them to work every day. She had bought them for Chrismahannakwanza, as they called it after the big move, and he fell in love with them.

“They make me feel like a college professor instead of a middle school punching bag! Professor Lindbogen!” Each morning he’d slide them on, pretending to fix a monocle to his face, “coming to my class today, young lady?”

It made Liza laugh every time, even if they were running late. “Yes sir, professor!” She’d call back.

Just a little part of their routine. He’d make her giggle, she’d kiss his cheek. He would make her coffee while she made his lunch, and they’d pull out of the garage with his car’s stereo starting up NPR while her’s loaded Michael Buble’.

“Yes sir, professor,” she whispers to the loafers.

He’d tell them to go to the hell they didn’t believe in. He’d tell them to get out of our house so his wife could mourn properly. He’d tell them we’d moved south just to get away from all of this. 

“It’s going to upset our moms.” Liza had said at the kitchen table, soaking in the warmth of her coffee, hoping it would make the small apartment feel less chilly.

“Good, that’s half the reason we’re doing this,” Pete smiled back, stirring honey into his tea. “No more fights on Sundays and holidays, no more random drop ins-” He walked over and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, “and warm. So warm, love.”

“I like warm,” she leaned back into his chest.

“I like warm too.” He kissed her forehead and turned to check a pot of oatmeal on the stove.

“How are we going to tell them?”

“Well, we’ll have your parents over for dinner this week.”

“Alright, red wine to loosen them up.”

“And steak to make your Dad happy. We’ll need to pull that huge gold crucifix out of the closet.”

“Good good, and that weird bowl they brought us from Rome, too.”

“Of course. Maybe we should put communion crackers in it?”

Liza laughed, “Too far! Calibrate, remember!” Pete responded by putting the paper towel roll on his head and demanding that Pope Pete be given more respect. He laughed at his own joke until the oatmeal was burnt.

“And your mom? How do we tell her that disappointing daughter-in-law is stealing her only son and trapping him below the Mason Dixon line?”

Pete straightened. “Hmmm… I say we call her from the airport.” And then he put his paper-towel-Mitre back on and stomped around the kitchen.

She was warm. She could do this. She’d done so much more over the past year. Of course this thought always makes her feel guilty and selfish. Yes, there had been many late nights in uncomfortable hospital chairs, more meetings with doctors than she could count. When his diet changed, her diet changed, because who had time to cook two different dinners in between appointments? Yes, it had been hard to concentrate on work, console well-wishers, and do all of the house chores by herself. But he was the one dying.

“This will be the easy part,” he whispered to her. “No more doctors appointments, no more meds, no more conference calls from a hospital room. You won’t have to worry about me anymore, I’ll be okay.”

She’d screamed at him right there in hospital room 402A. How dare he think this was the easy part? She was losing her best friend, she would be alone. He was the one that got to stop hurting, her pain was just about to begin.

“I’m your wife! I’ll take a thousands more nights in this chair if if means I get to keep you!”

He watched her yell for several minutes. This only further inflamed her, as it was damn rude to be so calm when she was furious. Then he reached for her from the bed and without hesitation she went to him. Even as all his strength left him, he kept her in one piece. “I don’t know where I’m going, love. But I know I’m not leaving you.”

And he didn’t. He is right there in his leather professor shoes. He is the steam rising from the kettle of fresh brewed chamomile. He is the shower droplets hitting the tiles, as off key as his singing when he used all the hot water. He hadn’t left, not really, because he loves her.

And she loves him. She loves him enough to keep his family in her house for the next few days too.

Drifting from the living room, she hears the deep voice of Pete’s favorite nephew telling a story and Snowball’s whine for a burnt cucumber sandwich. She smiles, hiccups, wipes away the tears she hadn’t felt fall, and walks into the kitchen to refill cups of tea and glasses of wine, and also probably to be scolded.

She keeps the loafers on.

The Word

Carry (verb): 1. Support and move someone or something from one place to another. 2. Support the weight of.

It is the first day of the new year, and “carry” just felt right. It’s easy to focus on New Year resolutions and all the opportunities that a fresh start brings. However, I have been thinking a lot on what we bring with us into those fresh stars. Whenever we enter into something, we are carrying all our experiences, our burdens, our worries, our everything really, with us. Often, we’re doing that whether we mean to or not. It’s like moving into a new house, and throwing all your stuff up in the same spot it was in the old house, then wondering why it looks the same.

I want to carry only the good things with me into 2019. I want to make this New Years not just about the new things I’m excited about (new workouts/races, new friends, new adventures with the boyfriend, THIS BLOG), but about letting go of the weight of things that do not bring joy to myself, and those I love. I suppose that’s what brought Liza’s little path together today in my head (and across the bathroom mirror last night in dry erase marker). I wanted to talk about the difference between a burden and a weight. She has to choose which things to carry with her after her husbands death: the sorrow of losing him? The difficult family dynamics left behind? Or rather, how he made her laugh when she didn’t want to, and how much he loved her even when she screamed at him.

Like most things, it’s easier said than done. But I am going to be setting a few things down in 2019, and not carrying them any further.

Cheers to the new year! May the weight of what you choose to carry with you onward only make you stronger!