Black

For Trifecta:

"I am black on the outside because I'm black on the inside," she said. I had to lean in to hear her over the thumping of the bass. She swayed back and forth without rhythm, her hair hanging in her face. It seemed contrived at the time, a cultivated look, with long sleeves and an odd combination of shaved scalp and hairspray, with more than enough eyeliner and mascara. I remember the clearly discernible shape of an iron burned into her forearm, peeking out from that sleeve.

Some months later, I realized it was exactly how she felt on the inside. She lit candles and ceremoniously invited me to sit on the floor with her and watch her cut lines into those same forearms. She reverently sterilized the razor blade first. I could see the white lines of scars that spoke of many ceremonies before.

I couldn’t do it, though. I couldn’t sit there and watch, and I couldn’t save her. I left. I hope that someday she invited the right person to participate in her ritual, the person who would knock the blade from her hand, who would shake her awake and dress her in greens, and golds, and pinks. But I fear that instead, it was my destiny to be that person, and I failed.

On the Count of Three...

For Trifextra:

At the window, not looking down, the boundless roar filled my ears. Heat, like hands against my back, pushed me forward. I saw blue sky. She squeezed my hand. We started to count.

All That and a Bag of Chips

The title is one of my college roommate's favorite phrases for describing women he found attractive. He also liked to say, "I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers!" High praise indeed.

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge got me thinking about my wife. Here are 333 words:

She is a powerhouse to the rest of the world, a force of nature, a focused and driven accomplisher of feats. She is that to me as well, but she gives to me more than she gives everyone else. To me alone she reveals parts of herself that she protects from the world. She walks in straight lines, and quickly, but I have come along on the slow meanderings, just us, alone. That is part of my love. I am elevated.

This, too, is part of my love, though I cannot make it sound the way it feels in my heart when I become lost in her: the inexpressible ache, the inexorable yearning to wrap her around me, to be thoroughly immersed in her as if she were the earth, the sea, the sky. I want to be so completely inside her that I disappear and she is everything. It is not destruction; it is transformation.

It’s a silly idea of course; I tower above her. I could wrap her up more thoroughly than she could me, at least by all appearances. She’s just a little thing, though certainly voluptuous. Upon meeting her for the first time, the word “ample” might rise to the minds of some, but both her body and her being are more than that. Such a small word, with suggestions of “enough” or even “a bit more than enough,” or “adequate,” “ample” is itself not adequate to describe her.

There are moments when her soft curves become the whole world.

When my son has come to me frustrated and baffled by the incomprehensible machinations of the neighborhood girls, I’ve told him that girls and women are special and magical and it is the role of boys and men to respect them, to honor them. He was dubious, but it’s a message I’ll repeat.  I could add “worship” to that list, too, but he’s not ready to hear that. He will learn it in his own time, if he’s lucky.

A Stone for Two Birds

I've been meaning to jump back into Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge, but haven't in a long time. Also, I was declared 2nd place winner of Trifecta's first of three prompts this week, which earned me a place in the Write-Off this weekend. So I decided to fulfill the requirements of both prompts with one piece, because I'm lazy like that, and a sick kid all week kind of wore me out. Here's "Triumph" for Trifecta and "Swagger" for Velvet Verbosity, with a 100-word count:

Parenting teaches: do not plan; you will plan for the wrong eventuality. I bought my son a balance bike at two. When he graduated to a pedal bike, he wouldn’t need training wheels. But he did.

Imagining myself running beside him yelling encouragement, I bought a handle for the back of his bike. We used it once before he demanded his training wheels.

A friend rode two-wheeled; he borrowed that bike and took off without me or my plans. It was a triumph. You should have seen his swagger. He was proud, and it had nothing to do with me.

Trifecta #33: Post Three

Oddly, the third prompt of Trifecta's Week 33 Extravaganza is: respond to this song in 33 to 333 words. I'm going back to the 333. Maybe it's  because of Velvet Verbosity, but I like the precision of an exact word count for these things.



Make It Last

Few things I know, but one is: in the long-term, all things are cyclical. Including emotions. Including my own. I hate this about myself, about my maleness, but it’s also true that the proximity in time of love’s last physical confirmation, well, that affects the cycle. It’s been some time now. Two weeks? Three?

I’m on my way home. I know that dinner’s waiting, and I’m late. But I’m not hurrying. The streets are packed. I should be below, on the train, on the express line to my beloved, but I am more magnanimous up here than down there. Jostling on the streets feels more companionable than avoiding eye contact and smelling the snow-wet clothes and body odor, suffering the prolonged body contact of the subway.

I’m not far now, in a geography marked by city blocks. Familiar landmarks gesture to me, hurrying me home. By not thinking of my burdens, my woes, I’m of course thinking of them, and suddenly I’m snapped both out of and back into myself: a couple on a park bench, most mundane and most sublime, ageless in winter vestments, scarf-wrapped head resting against goose-downed shoulder, gloved hand in gloved hand, lips moving in intimate murmurs. And for that moment, I am lost.

I come back, and my step quickens. I remember:  my brother driving me to the church, saying, “If you can always picture her and what she looks like as she walks up the aisle toward you, you’ll be okay.” I see her that day. I peeked out of the cloak room into which I was hastily shoved when suddenly she arrived. She gathered the skirt of her dress in one hand as she stepped from the car, ducking under the umbrella that her sister held. She smiled, and it didn’t matter that I’d forgotten the boutonnieres.

I’m almost running now, almost home. I know she’s waited for me. We can make it last. I remember again, for the thousandth time: We can make it last.

Trifecta #33: Post Two

Trifecta's going crazy on the threes for their 33rd week.

I went 333 last time. I'm sticking to 33 this time.

Score

Each infraction noted. Every injury carefully tallied. All insults, omissions, and insensitive words etched deeply into memory to be brought forth later as evidence. Remember: in marriage, keeping score makes every player lose.

Trifecta #33: Post One

Trifecta's going crazy on the threes for their 33rd week.

“What I tell you three times is true.” I am relieved to hear steadiness in my voice and I hope that it sounds like strength. I have no doubt the obscure literary reference will go right over his head. He doesn’t look to me to be a well-read man. Still, he has a habit of holding eye contact far too long. It’s just a tactic, I tell myself, a way to make it look like he sees far more than he possibly could. Knowing that, it’s still unnerving.

“Say it as many times as you want,” he answers. His voice is deep and flat, like a drum in a sound-proof room. “It’s still not going to work.” I see the dirt under his nails, impossibly black. I try not to speculate on the jagged scar that slices across the right side of his neck, but I can’t help myself. A knife? A rope? “You’ve never done this kind of job before.” It wasn’t a question.

“Well…” I drag the word out, feeling a stammer coming on. I swallow. “I’m still in charge of this thing.” I know I should let silence speak for me. I should turn with the confidence that he will follow, but my mouth keeps chattering on without me. “That’s what I was hired for. I’ve got the technical knowledge. The education. That’s why he put me in charge. If you’ve got a problem with that, we can call him right now.”

He doesn’t laugh, at least. But he never drops his eyes. His right hand hangs in a fist, like a stone at the end of a maul. He runs his left hand slowly down his right cheek, his little finger brushing the line of that awful scar. “You don’t look much like a Bellman to me,” he says, and my heart and my stomach change places. “Not a Butcher, either.” His eyes move down at last, then up again, slowly. “No,” he says. “A Beaver. Definitely a Beaver.”