write me a love song

Write me a love song, she said, asking, really, more than anything, nicely, certainly not demanding, and he said I’ve tried, but it hasn’t worked, and she nodded, surprised at his matter-of-fact answer for she was just kidding, a bit, and she hid her reaction with a smile, but suddenly felt a lump grow in her throat, and she looked away from the disappointment in his eyes so he wouldn’t see it in hers. What’s it mean, she asked, still hiding herself from him, and he thought for a moment, then for another, then said it just means that the words haven’t come, then added, yet, and she said, but aren’t they supposed to just be there, by now, and he sucked in a deep breath and answered, I think so, yes. She didn’t cry, right then, though she wanted to, but instead just hid what she felt behind another nice smile. It was what she did; it was her way. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit.

a moment

She pulled on her t-shirt, tucked it into her jeans, tossed her head this way and back, fluffing her hair, smiled into the mirror, licked her lips, one more time, then headed downstairs. He was waiting for her, and, God, she was in love. She was in love with him, with her life, with being in love. Her mother’d told her there’d be days like this and she’d nodded and hoped and, later, prayed for one. And, now, here it was – that kind of day. He didn’t see her when she reached the living room and she watched him looking away, far off, toward something that wasn’t visible, and she loved him even more and she said a quick prayer that went something like I-hope-I’m-not-dreaming, and she wasn’t, at all. He turned to her and looked in her eyes and said, “I love you,” and she felt a rush of happiness that she knew would never, again, come, like this, even if they lived for a million years, and even though there was a sadness attached to that, she knew that what he said was true and real and she took his hand, raised it to her lips and kissed it.

i'm a medium

She wore a t-shirt that read “Jesus Patrol,” which begged the questions: Was she looking for Him or with Him? He wore one that read “Stud (picture of a muffin).” Not so much. This was here, but it could’ve been anywhere, given the incredible ubiquity of overtly inane t-shirts. For a time, it was the “Shit Happens” and “I’m With Stupid” shirts that advertised a compete disregard and/or ignorance for and of irony. Now, these. She was short and dumpy. He was taller and dumpy. The medium is the message. Still.