THE DRIVE

    “Well, come on now. Be fair. What you’re doing, that thing you’re doing there—“
    She stopped and turned to me and sarcastically said:
    “Frolicing?”
    “Yeah, it’s really different.”
    She shook her head and resumed walking.
    “Wait a minute, where ya going. Don’t go that way.”
    I started to pursue her.
    “It’s—dangerous. There’s—fraternities, shopping malls—there’s even a Gap clothing store that way.”
    She stopped and giggled.
    “Come on, I can give you a ride down. I’m sure you’ve seen me around; heard me read my poetry at The Boiler Room. That’s how I hooked up with your friends.”
    “Some nice images but too much that is long-winded and could be cut.”
    “Whattiya talking about? My poetry doesn’t need to be cut. It’s fine the way it is.”
    “Every writer says that,” she said.
    “Well, sometime you have to graduate from reading comic books,” I murmered.
    “What’s that?” she said; a bit mad too. For she did not like being teased or “one-upped.”
    “Come on. Let’s explore a little bit of Holy Land first.”
    “I can’t,” she said. “I have to go to class.”
    “What are you in high school?” I asked.
    “College!”
    “Freshman?”
    “Why!”
    “Because no one except a freshman goes to class on Friday mornings, and even freshmen stop going after the first few weeks of their fall semester.”
    And this was spring. Late April. Second semester. She should know better. In the meantime, I gave myself a mental pat on the back for remembering something about college.
    “It’s a class in my major, and my professor’s already pissed at me on account of my last project. He said my coffins fell flat in terms of dynamics and composition.”
    “I hopeÉyou’re an art major?”
    She look down and shyly said:
    “Art, or Art EducationÉ”
    To her parents, the latter; the only way you’re going to convince your folks to fund something that smacked to them of impracticality. If she went to the local state college, it would be the only way for her to study Art. The institutions in this area also reflected the same Bungalow-void view of professions or majors that did not quite fit into a cubicle; therefore, a study like Art required a practical appendage to it like “education”. That should not kill the study; if anything, it should enhance it, make it more exciting. Yeah, right—if in case you don’t catch the sarcasm. And now look at the lives of many of your great artists. They were some of the biggest degenerates and drug addicts going. Look at some of your art movements like Dada. Hugo Ball dressed like an Intergalatic clown and recited poetry that sounded like infantile Tourette’s Syndrome gibberish. (Okay, I believe he later became a devout Catholic; well, at least he prepared himself well with the earlier Dada gibberish.) Unfortunately, the local school boards have a Crayola crayon mentality when it comes to Art; some of the state’s upscale suburbs may fare better: they can finance class trips to see an impressionist show at a major museum like the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Institutions like the Met become a sign of breeding class distinctions, like horseback riding. Well, pass me the can of Krylon metal flake spray paint. Or better yet, a crowbar, bat, or sharp or blunt object that would make a cool object to cause pretty serious vandalism and even damage on one of your more major corrupt institutions like a church or state college, specifically a teacher training college.
    But making miniature coffins sounds like a nice idea for an art project.
    “Your teacher sounds like a moron.”
    “He’s really not,” she said. “When it came time to display my project for the stupid art show, my tiny coffins looked more like a town green nativity scene. But with Barbie and Ken dolls. That’s how I portrayed of the moribund American nuclear family.”
    “Well, you can always look at it as a work in progress.”
    “Yeah, I suppose. But my professor is still right. A lot of my work is too static. I need to be more organic. So even if I don’t go to class, I need to find several pieces of organic material to go into my end of semester project.”
    “I can help you there,” I said. “I know where to find a lot of things that are decaying. Anything that rots has to be organic.”
    Her arm were now unlocked. They also partially disappeared within the scarves and I suppose pockets of her dress. She slightly shrugged her shoulders and said with little commitment:
    “I guess. We can at least look through Holy Land. There’s got to be something organic here, and I could use a ride back to school.”
    I smiled.
    “Whatever you say.”
    She bit her lip, and looked at me with squinty eyes.
    “What about you!” she said. “Don’t you have a job or something?”
    “Well—sometimesÉ” I said.
    She continued her glowering; demanding more of an answer.
    “I’m a substitute teacher .”
    Pause.
    “But they did not call me today.”
    Pause again. Her glower still burning.
    “Well, how could they?”
    I gestured with my chin towards the car.
    “I have a cell phone—but it’s somewhere in the back seat.”

performance art

Beach Poets Feature 08/14/05 Reading at Loyola Beach

Burn It In

I too have my recorders.
I burn these things into my brain,
I burn these things onto pages.
I pick and choose what needs to be said,
what needs to be remembered.

Every year, at the end of the year
I used to write in a journal
recall the things that happened to me
log in all of the memories I needed to keep
because that was what kept me sane
that was what kept me alive.

When I first went to college
I was studying to be a computer science
engineer, I wanted to make a lot of money
I wanted to beat everyone else
because burned in my brain were the taunts
of kids who were in cliques
so others could do the thinking for them
because burned in my brain were the evenings
of the high school dances I never went to
because burned in my brain were the people
I knew I was better than
who thought they were better than me.
Well, yes, I wanted to make a lot of money
I wanted to beat everyone else
but I hated what I was doing
I hated what I saw around me
hated all the pain people put each other through
and all of these memories just kept flooding me
so in my spare time
to keep me sane, to keep me alive
I wrote down the things I could not say
that was how I recorded things.

When I looked around me, and saw friends
raping my friends
I wrote, I burned into these nightmares with a pen
and yes, I have this recorded
I have all of this recorded.

What did you think I was doing
when I was stuffing hand-written notes into my pockets
or typing long hours into the night?
In college, I had two roommates
who in their spare time would watch movies in our living room
and cross-stitch. I never understood this.
In my spare time, I was not watching other’s stories
or weaving thread to keep my hands busy
I was sitting in the corner of a cafe
scribbling into my notebook.
I was sitting in the university computer lab
slamming my hands, my fingers against the keyboard
because there were too many atrocities in the world
too many injustices that I had witnessed
too many people who had wronged me

and I had a lot of work to do.
There had to be a record of what you’ve done.

Did you think your crimes would go unpunished?
And did you think that you could come back, years later,
slap me on the back with a friendly hello
and think I wouldn’t remember?
You see, that’s what I have my poems for
so there will always be a record
of what you have done
I have defiled many pages
in your honor, you who swung
your battle ax high above your head
and thought no one would remember in the end.
Well, I made a point to remember.
Yes, I have defiled many pages
and have you defiled many women?
You, the man who rapes my friends?
You, the man who rapes my sisters?
You, the man who rapes me?
Is this what makes you a strong man?

you want to know why I do the things I do

I had to record these things
that is what kept me together
when people were dying
that is what kept me together
when my friends went off to war
that is what kept me together
when my friends were raped
and left for dead
that is what kept me together
when no one bothered to notice this
or change this
or care about this
these recordings kept me together

I need to record these things
to remind myself
of where I came from
I need to record these things
to remind myself
that there are things to value
and things to hate
I need to record these things
to remind myself
that there are things worth fighting for
worth dying for
I need to record these things
to remind myself
that I am alive

David

    I used to fear for your life, you know, when you were messed up with the drugs, the gangs. I’d sit up nights wondering why you didn’t call. I’d wonder if you were dead. I’d wonder if you were beaten up, bleeding on a subway, trying to hold your ribs in place. It hurt to care from five hundred miles away, for someone who couldn’t care for himself.
    I’m glad that you straightened yourself out. Or I’m glad you almost did.

    I remember being in your car, driving back from Tiger Tail beach. My skin felt itchy from the salt. My feet were sticking out the window, pressed against the rear-view mirror. I think you were holding my hand.
    This was after you told me you wanted me to marry you. You never asked me to marry you, but you told me that’s what you wanted. I should have expected that from you. But you always surprised me.
    I remember thinking that we could never get along for any reasonable length of time. You didn’t want to leave Canada; I didn’t want to leave the States. You wanted to backpack around Europe; I wanted to get a job, an apartment, some security. Vacationing at the tip of this peninsula seemed to be the only way we could meet.
    But even though my skin hissed from the salt and the sun, in that car with you I felt like we could go anywhere.

I looked in my purse today
and found a box of Swan Vestas matches. You bought them
at the tobacco shop in the mall in Naples.
You asked me to hold the box for you.
I couldn’t understand why you bothered to buy matches
when you could get matchbooks anywhere, but
I must admit that you looked good when you lit one of them.
The box was so big. No American would want
a matchbox that big.
You always struck the match to the box three times
before it would light.
You made the art of lighting a match
seem like a pleasure.

I always liked the smell of sulphur.
I’m glad you forgot that box in my purse.

I Dreamt About You Last Night

“I dreamt about you last night
and I fell out of bed twice
you can pin and mount me
like a butterfly”
- Steven M.

I dreamt about you last night.
I called you on the phone
even though you passed away
over four weeks ago now.
I don’t know why I called, I
don’t know what I was hoping for,
but when you answered your phone
I said, “Dave?”
You said, “Yes.”
And I asked, “How are you?”
You said, “Fine.”
And I asked, “You’re not dead?”
You said, “No.”
“But I just told someone
you passed away a month ago.”
“Oh,” you said, “Don’t worry.
I’ll take care of it.”
And you sounded so -
so relaxed. So peaceful.

They say that dreams are your
chance to think over the things
unresolved from your day. And
I keep dreaming about you.
Don’t I think about you enough?

You’re the one that left me.
Why are you coming back,
at night, when I let my defenses
down, slipping in through my
window and working your way
into my dreams?

I dreamt about you last night.
We were sitting together,
about to go out for the evening.
You were wearing a black
t-shirt and black jeans.
We were running late, and you
were angry. “I wanted to wear
this, but I wanted to put more
black on - I wanted to wear my
black vest and my black jacket.”
You know, I thought it was
always funny, how much you cared
about the clothes you wore.
So I said, “But Dave, you look
fantastic in your jeans and
t-shirt.” And you smiled at me
and kissed me.

I wish I could have told you
more in life how good you looked.
I’m sorry, Dave. I’m so sorry.
I wish in life I could have told
you the things you wanted to hear.

I saw you today. You were in a
black car and you were wearing
dark sunglasses. He could have
been you, if I closed my eyes
and squinted just slightly. You pulled
up in the lane next to me as I
was driving to my sister’s house.
You were about to turn right and
I watched you look at the oncoming
traffic, waiting for your chance to
leave me again.

Let me think that it was you,
driving, living. Let me think that
you’re just ignoring me. Then
I can be angry with you.

I dreamt about you last night.
I was on a cruise ship, and you
were working as a waiter. You wore
one of those silly short jackets
for your uniform. It was a sea blue.
And every time I thought I saw you
you would turn away to do your
job. All I ever caught were fleeting
glimpses of you, walking away.

All I keep thinking is that
my days are finally free of you
but they’re not. I keep thinking
of you. And it isn’t enough.
I still can’t escape you at night.

Coquinas

I can’t imagine
the number of times
I’ve been there

visiting Florida,
Christmas with my parents
a plastic tree
decorated
with sand dollars
and red

ribbons

eating Christmas dinner
listening to Johnny Mathis

and after the Irish coffee,
father with his brandy snifter
in hand
mother and the other
girls
putting away the dishes

the carolers would come,
walking in front of our home

singing “We wish you a
merry Christmas”
over and over again

we would walk outside
and the cool breeze
almost felt like Christmas
after the hot
humid days

and we would stand on our driveway
smile and nod

you could see down the road
all the candles in
paper bags
lining the street

and for a few lights
the bag

burned

and we would take
boat rides
off the coast
my parents and their friends
to a tiny island

dad drinking beer
sometimes steering the boat
control
the women sitting together in the shade
worrying about their hair

i would sit at the front
sunglasses, swimsuit and sunburn
feeling the wind
slapping me
in the face

and turning my head away from the boat
into the wind
away from them

to face it again

docking at a shoreline
everyone jumping out
little bags in their hands

the women go looking for shells
the men go barbecue

after an hour or two
the sandwiches, potato chips eaten
the soda and beer almost
gone

we turn around
and head back

we have conquered

and I remember
the coquinas

the little shells
you could find them alive
on the beaches north of the pier in
Naples

going to the beach
I would look for a spot
to find them

they were all my own

they burrowed their way into the
sand
to avoid the light
worming their way away from me

I unearthed a group of coquinas once,
fascinated with their color of
their shells, the way
they moved

before they could hide

I collected them
in a jar,
took them home with me

what did you teach me
what have you taught me to do
is this it
is this what it has become
is this what has become of me
of you of us

and I took them home

I added salt water and sand
but I couldn’t feed them
I realized soon that they
would die

so I let them

a child in the park

tennis, the pool, and a maze of streets for bicycles
and long walks; surrounded by rows of prefabricated
homes each with one little palm tree by the driveway.

People drove golf carts around in the park, or large
tricycles, or older couples would walk together just as
it was beginning to turn to dusk and long shadows from

tree-tops cris-crossed over the streets. In the afternoons,
the women in the pool would wear hats and sunglasses,
lean against the sides, swing legs in the warm water.

I remember the summer afternoons when it rained in
Florida, and after the rain I would go out in the puddles
in my roller skates, skate through them, feet soaking wet.

There was even a street named after me in the park,
and at the end of Jan Drive there was a pond.
I spent hours there, playing imaginary games,

pretending I was grown-up, feeding the ducks,
watching the fish swim around the rocks at my
feet, looking for the turtles, listening to the wind.

Oh, I remember Mr. Whorall, how he would walk
onto his driveway every time I was playing tennis
across the street. He would watch me, tell me how

I was getting better at the game every time he saw me.
And there was also Mrs. Rogers, who lived up the
street from me. She saw me riding my bicycle by one day

just before Halloween. She invited me in to help
carve a pumpkin. Every year she bought me a Christmas
present. The sweetest woman. The most beautiful woman.

And there was Ira and Betty Wiggins, who lived on
the next street, Sand Drive, with a sign in front of
their house that said, “The Wiggins’ Wigwam.”

They had a hammock on their porch, and art so
beautiful, so colorful on their walls. They lived in
Panama for years, he used to be a doctor. So

many things collected from all their travel. They both
knew so much, they both loved life. Once they saw
me and asked if I wanted to catch a lion. They then

went to the side of the road, and with a spoon pulled
an ant lion from the top of a sand hill. So many secrets.
Every night Ira could be found with cue holder,

decorated with Panamanian art, at the pool table, playing
my father, or another man who died years ago. I remember
that man telling me that when I was younger he would

watch me on Easter Sunday, me in my pastel dress, by
myself, spinning, dancing in the streets. He remembered
me dancing. This is his memory, how he thought of me.

And I remember the McKinleys, Pete and Lindy, another
beautiful pair who talked of Mexico, of all the places
they’d gone, all the things they had seen. So many times I

would visit them just to hear them talk. And Pete would try
to stump me with an intellectual riddle every time I sat with
him; he would ask me about astronomy, what I had learned in my

classes since the last time I visited the park. Sometimes they
would take me to their country club, play on tennis courts made
of clay, how strange it felt on my feet through my tennis shoes.

It was like another world there. The park was
where I spent my Christmases, my Easters. I
remember swimming in the pool, a week shy of

thirteen, when my parents told me I was an aunt.
Now I talk to my sister on the phone, she asks me
if I remember so-and-so from Palos Avenue,

from Blue Skys Drive. The couple that had the ornate
rock garden in their front yard, or the snow shovel
against their light post with the words “rust in

peace” painted in white on the metal. Yes, I say, I
remember them. Well, so-and-so passed away last week,
she says. Heart attack. This is what it comes down

to, I think, all these memories are slowly disappearing.
So many memories. Where there are palm trees everywhere.
It was my other world, my other life, another

lifestyle, another everything. This was not an ordinary
park, but the children were so much smarter, and
still so full of life. So much to teach. So little time.

Freedom just past the Fence

in the air

Over Las Vegas with my family, my sister
and myself in one row, my parents in the
other across the way. We’re nearing the end
of our flight; mother tells me to sit in her
seat and look out the window as we fly
over the Hoover dam. Sitting next to father,
I watch him lean out the window saying,
just think of all that concrete.
I look over his shoulder, the dam
no larger than a thumbnail, the water,
like cracks in a sidewalk, like the
wrinkles in the palm of my hand.

Over Phoenix, preparing for another
descent at 8:50 p.m., but it’s usually fifteen
minutes late, as it is now, I’m getting
used to the schedule now. The mountains look
like the little mountains you see on
topographically correct globes, little ridges,
as if they’re made of sand, if you just lean
your head down a little bit, your exhaling
can make them all blow away in the
breeze. And I know that what I’m looking for
is out there, somewhere, I think this is
where it is, I better not be wrong, I just
have to search a little harder and find it.
I love the city lights from above at night.
Have you ever thought of how much power
it takes to light all those buildings?
All that energy. And every time I look,
look out that little window with rounded corners,
i see a string of yellow Italian Christmas
lights strung across the ground.

And little Champaign, Illinois, and
those little airplanes that 25 people
fit in. The airport there is really nice,
actually, it’s made for a bigger city, a city
of dreams and tall buildings, that’s what I
think. The roar of the planes are so loud, though,
not like those 747’s where you can sleep
during the flight. But they fly low enough
so that I can see the building I live in
from the sky. And where I work. There’s the
store. Neil Street. Assembly Hall. The bars.

Over Fort Myers, the city always looks
different from any other place, all those
palm trees, the marshes. Like you’ve just
landed somewhere foreign, and pretty soon
the big tour will begin. You can feel the
heat, the humidity sticking your shirt to
your back between your shoulder blades,
and your neck, sticking to your neck too,
from inside your cabin, before you even land.

Chicago looks grand from the sky
with this huge expanse of lake
next to it, like civilization crept up
as far as it could but finally had to stop.
The power of nature stopping the power
of man kind, for once. And I cannot
decide which one looks more evil.
The lake does, looks evil i mean, at least
at night, at night it looks like two spheres:
a string of lights and a huge void. Daylight,
and the snow on the ground looks dirty, too
many cars have splashed mud on it as they
drove by. And the sky always matches the
shade of grey of the snow: fitting for the
city of the Blues. Maybe the snow is already
that color, that perfect shade of grey,
when it falls from the sky in this city.

Have you ever noticed that the air
isn’t normal air in an airplane? I mean,
I know they have to pump in the air,
and pressurize it and all in order to
keep us alive up there, but there’s just
something about the air in the cabin
that’s different. It’s got a smell to it,
that’s the only way I can describe it.
A smell of all these people, going
places, running to something, or
running away from it.

When I go on vacation and I promise
people I’ll write, I usually write from the
plane, just so I don’t have to worry about
it for the rest of my trip. And I write their
letter on an airsick bag. It’s more
interesting than paper.

I like the window seat, I like to look
out the window. Clouds look like
cotton balls when you’re above them,
and when you’re landing cars look like
little ants, on a mission, bringing food
back to their hill. Little soldiers, back
and forth, back and forth. And the
streets look like veins, capillaries in some
massive, monstrous body. And the
farmland looks like little squares of colors.
I wonder why each plot of land is a
different color, what’s growing there
that makes them different. Or maybe it’s
that some of them are turning shades of red
and brown because some of them dying.

Once I was bumped from my flight,
but on the next available flight they gave
me first class. And I sat there, feeling
underdressed. And afraid to order a drink.

And it always seems that you’re stuck
sitting next to someone that is either
too wide for their seat, or is a businessman
with his newspaper stretched out
and his lap top computer on his little
fold out table. Once, when I was on a
flight back from D. C., a flight attendant
walked by, stack of magazines in her
hand, Time, Newsweek, Businessweek,
and I stopped her, asking what magazines
she had. And she replied, “Oh, these
magazines are for men.” This is a true
story. And I asked her again what she
had. I had already read Time, so I took
Newsweek.

Age

    Sometimes, when I get behind the wheel of a car, I feel like I’m at Six Flags Great America Amusement Park In Gurnee, Illinois again and I’m thirteen years old and I’m able to drive one of the bumper cars. And it’s such a thrill -- because, I mean, I’m thirteen years old and I can’t drive, and I’m now in control of this huge piece of machinery. Granted, there’s this wire sticking up from the car that gets electricity from the ceiling, but for once I feel free, that I can just go, go faster than I ever could by running, or even if I used my roller skates or my bicycle.
    And when I get that feeling and I’m behind the wheel of my car I want to drive really really fast out on an abandoned road, blare some rock music, roll down my window, and turn up the heat, since it’s the middle of winter.

    Sometimes, when I go out on a new date, I feel like I’m sixteen again, and I’ll rifle through my closet, deciding I have absolutely nothing to wear. And he’ll pick me up, and we’ll go to a restaurant with deer heads on the walls, and we’ll have whiskey sours, and we’ll struggle with the lettuce leaves in the salads because they’re too big, and when we’re done with dinner we’ll go to a bar that’s so crowded and so loud that we won’t be able to talk to each other, but we’ll have to stand real close.     And then he’ll take me home and I’ll invite him in, he’ll sit on the chair, I’ll sit on the couch, and he’ll ask for a glass of water. When we can’t think of any more small talk, and the clock says 3:12 a.m., I’ll see him to the door, he’ll kiss me good-bye, and I’ll lock the door after he leaves. And when I’m sure he can’t see me through the window, I’ll turn on the stereo and dance in my living room before I go to bed.

    Sometimes, when I’m having sex with someone, I feel like I’ve done this for years, like I’ve been married to this man for twenty years, and I still don’t know him, but I’m still there, night after night. After the wedding, after the new house, which was a little small, but we’ll get something bigger when we have the money, after the two kids and the fifteen pounds, after I lose my job, after we don’t get that new house and after the kids complain about their curfews, after the dog dies, hell, it was only trouble for us anyway, after the sinus headaches, the back problems, that all-over sore feeling, you know, it’s harder to wake up in the mornings now, after it all he still has the nights, the sex with the woman he knows all too well but not at all, and we do it, as we always do. It becomes memorization. It becomes like a play, that I act out night after night.

    Sometimes, when I get home after 10 o’clock from working overtime on the computers, I just want to retire, to quit the work, to stop it all. I see my parents, after a life of working at the construction site and raising five children, now beginning to relax, buying a small home in Southwest Florida, playing tennis in the morning, playing cards in the afternoon, drinking with other retired couples in the evening. Sometimes another couple invites them out for a boat ride off of Marco Island, where they smoke cigarettes, drink a few beers, and drive slow enough to make no wake when they’re by the pier.
    Sometimes I look at the computer screen I work at and remember how computers used to mean video games. I remember when I was eight and I would sit with my best friend in the upstairs den on the floor in front of the old television set and play table tennis on our Atari. Times change, I suppose, and I get old. This is my life.

Clay

    so I was at this bar, on the coast of florida -- the west coast, the gulf side, you know. it was this place called lana kai, and my friend gave me a ride all the way from naples, which is a good forty-five minutes south of the place.

    and so we were sitting there at the bar, which is half indoors and half on the beach, and all these old men kept staring at my friend’s chest. a couple guys bought us beer and one guy asked me to dance. I was surprised he asked me to dance, and not my friend -- men were usually more attracted to her.

    but the guys were jerks anyway -- one looked like a marine with that haircut and must have been high on something, one looked like he decided to forgo hygiene, another was twice my age. it’s not as if I try to pick up men in bars anyway.

    so after a while I couldn’t stand being at the bar, next to the reggae band that was playing (I never really liked reggae music anyway, I mean, it’s too slow to dance to), so I begged my friend to come walk with me on the beach.

    christ, I felt like a ten-year-old with a bucket and shovel when I kicked off my black suede shoes and ran into the water. I always loved the feel of sand when it’s drenched in water. it feels like clay as it seeps around my toes, pulling me into the ground.

    so there I was, splashing in the water, wearing a black sequin dress, throwing my purse to the shore, taking a swig from my can of miller lite. this was life, I thought. pure and simple. an army couldn’t have dragged me out of the water.

    so my friend found some guy to hit on, as she usually does, and she wanted me to hit on his friend. I found him ugly as all sin, and impossible to talk to. I told him that one of the rafts on the shore was mine, and instead of driving to the bar I sailed. and he believed me. I told my friend flat out that I wouldn’t go with him. she was pissed that I didn’t find him good-looking.

    so then He strolled up from the bar to the beach, an intriguing stranger, and He walked up right next to me in the water, still wearing his shoes, seeming to know that I needed to be saved. as most knights in shining armor would.

    and He said hello to me, and He started talking to me, and He cracked a few jokes, and He made me laugh.

    and okay, I’ll admit it -- he was good-looking, really good looking. I remember at one point, looking at him made me think of a greek statue, He had this curly hair, this sharp chin, these strong cheek bones. but those greek statues could never talk to me, they have no color, they don’t come alive. they’re made of stone.

    His name was Clay. and when we talked He crept into my pores, the way the sand made it’s way between my toes. His voice tunneled into me, boring me hollow, making me anxiously wait to be filled with more and more of His words.

    my friend disappeared with her new-found monosyllabic lover, for hours, until long after the bar closed, leaving me stranded. there I was, forty-five miles north of my home at 2:20 in the morning with no means of transportation. it could have been worse, I could have been somewhere other than on the beach, I could have been sober, and I might not have had a knight in shining armor named Clay to save me.

    and as He drove me home (an hour and a half out of his way), I couldn’t help but run my fingers through his hair, it was an uncontrollable impulse, like the urge to drag your fingers deep into the wet sand. I told Him I was just trying to keep Him awake for the drive.

    it’s almost better if I never see Him again. then I can always think of Him this way.