Fairy Tale, Draft 5

"Holy screw monkeys in a stocking!"

"What happened?" Sarah called from the hotel bathroom, the clatter of makeup products being unpacked abruptly ceasing.

"My books!" I replied, fighting back the burbling edge of panic that was gathering forces for an attack on my throat. "My books are missing! Someone stole my books!" I wailed, collapsing on my knees before my suitcase, open on the far bed.

It was admittedly a rather melodramatic reaction.

"Oh, chill, 'Dia," my best friend responded, poking her head into the room. "No one stole your books, okay?"

"But they're gone," I insisted. I rocked back and forth, hands shaking in front of me. I wasn't quite sure what to do with them. Normally, in such a state, I'd occupy them with holding a book, but that was, in this case, obviously not an option.

Sarah stared at me, unmoved by my hysterics.

"Yeah, uh-huh," she said, voice wry and flat. "Someone broke into your suitcase, which was locked underneath the bus, in order to steal your copy of Pride and Prejudice."

"Exactly!"

She shook her head slowly, her shoulder length red hair swishing with the motion.

"Kennedia, I know summing up situations in pithy little sayings is your deal, but you read too much and it has addled your brain."

"Has not-"

She continued over the beginnings of my protest.

"First off, all the other people on this trip are male. Even if they could get under the locked bus, dig your suitcase out from the bottom of the pile, open it, remove your books, then return your suitcase to its former position, unnoticed, all while the bus was constantly in motion, what are the chances they'd leave your corsets untouched? Not a single one of them wants your books. They don't even want to read them. Their principle occupation in literature is praying that they are never tested on a novel from the Victorian period, especially not a novel from the Victorian period written by a woman."

I paused, the stream of indignation and drama temporarily halted. She had a point.

Seeing that she was getting through to me, Sarah moved into the room and perched on the other bed.

"Furthermore," she went on, "this is supposed to be a social event. It's a conference, not a weekend of sitting in the corner with your nose in a book in between debates."

I grimaced, leaning back on my heels. The carpet ground beneath my toes, abrasive and cheap. I knew where she was going with this.

"So, really, it's a good thing that you don't have your books, which you merely left at home. Consider this an opportunity for learning and growth. No book means that you might actually have to talk to people."

Her lipsticked smirk seemed much too satisfied from my vantage point.

The vanguard of panic that I'd been holding off took advantage of that moment to rush into my throat, sealing off the passage. I could not breathe, let alone speak.

I rolled off my knees onto my side, using the slight force of the impact to jar my lungs into a squeaky exhalation.

Sarah's facial expression did not become any less smug.

My voice, when it came, was small and high, perhaps even a bit whiny.

"But I don't like talking to people."

People didn't like talking to me.

My best friend finally moved from her position on the bed, proffering a hand to help me off the floor.

"There, there, 'Dia," she said, hauling me to my feet. "You're good at talking when you forget to be self-conscious. You're a great debater, and I might go so far as to say that you should try your hand at drama club." Her tone took a dry twist as she patted me on the shoulder. "Besides, if you talk to them, people aren't going to eat you."

~*~

As I looked around the ballroom, my arms were crossed tightly across my stomach, the soft material of the dress I was wearing an unfamiliar sensation on my skin. Sarah had insisted that I looked great in it, and had refused to let me wear anything else.

Letter to Self

SD-

You're being ridiculous and melodramatic. Stop it.

Your life does not always run as smoothly as you'd like. You cannot always have it all.

Quit bitching and making more problems than actually exist.

You love him. It's scary, I know. This is what? The longest you've been in a relationship since you dated your best friend? It's been a long time since you've met anyone so amazing, and for someone who's used to moving on, that's hard.

But guess what, doll?

It's not falling apart this time.

It still thrills you just to get a text from him. It's still as though you never want evenings with him to end. It still makes you smile to think of him. It's still the case that he's the first person you want to talk to about all your big ideas. It's still him you want.

So, hush. This is not a problem. Focus your energy elsewhere.

Say, don't you have a research paper to write? Or a poem to compose? Or line-edits to do? Or a test to study for? Or groceries you have to buy? Or a resume to revise? Or a gym to go to? Or cookies to bake? Or dishes to wash?

Yeah, I think I've made my point.


- SD

Spare Minute or Sixty

Don't you sometimes wonder why we're doing all this?

We're both going through life like the other's a bonus, something to be squeezed in when we have a spare minute or sixty, something to be enjoyed and then forgotten about as we move on to more serious, more important affairs. And we pretend, because we've got that spare minute or sixty for each other, that this whole 'us' bit is a Priority.

But can you even imagine a future with me, five years down the line? I'll be in grad school, and you'll be who knows where, embroiled in research or in an underground bunker wearing your flat face as you consider a panel of gauges. And we're supposed to do what? Be married at that point? Have had a quiet church wedding that'll satisfy your parents but that I won't have believed a whit in? Go to church every Sunday, so I can think about the implications of Facebook for adolescent sexuality as I desperately try to ignore the sermon? Go home in the afternoons to our little apartment, where you'll immediately start on dinner and I'll retreat to my desk and ignore everything but schoolwork, including you and your food? Go to bed at night, where you'll briefly cuddle with me, and then wake up at 3:07 in the morning, wishing like a six year old about to blow out his birthday candles that you were sleeping alone?

We don't even have to go that far. How's this summer going to play out, do you think? At the very least, you're going to be two hours away, probably more. You'll text me every once in a while, tell me about some minor aspect of your day, and you won't call more than twice the entire summer. Mostly, I'll text you, silly sweet stuff like "I'm thinking of you," and when you don't answer, I'll eventually give up, and we'll go days without exchanging so much as an emoticon. And the entire time, I'll be here, meeting people and flirting the way I always flirt, but you'll seem farther and farther away, until I can't even remember the way that you smell, much less the mingled taste of scotch and dark chocolate as we kiss. I'll compare every single last male to you and find that they come up short, and I'll still wonder why all I'm doing is flirting, because I won't really have you, except as a single line on Facebook regarding my relationship status.

But in the meantime, in that spare minute or sixty, we wrap our arms around each other, taste the salt on the other's neck, and pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist, and it is fabulous. I remember that night on the roof when we were dancing with the lightning, off a few miles, flashing all around us, and you leaned down and kissed me and I went up on relevée to meet you and closed my eyes - the entire world disappeared, and it was just you and me. It was just us. It was just your lips on mine. It was just my arms pressing into the fleece of your jacket. It was just the warmth of your hand on the back of my neck. It was just us. And then I opened my eyes and we broke the kiss and we both panted hard as we fought to catch our breath and leash it, and it was physically painful to look around and see that the clouds had moved in and there was an entire other world outside of us, and we had to go back to it. Immediately.

After every spare minute or sixty we manage for each other, we go our separate ways. You go back to your desk, to your computer, adding just a few more shades of depth to the purple beneath your eyes, and I go back to my empty bed, where I toss and turn and try to imagine that you're holding me so I can fall asleep, but since I can't quite picture it, I never really get there.

Maybe I'm ungrateful, or maybe I'm naive, or maybe I don't really have a heart - just an overactive imagination to make up for the lack. But I can't help but sometimes wonder why we're doing all this - is this what love's really like?

Sleepless Nights

They tell me that the days are getting longer, the weather's getting warmer, and those sleepless nights are not so cold.

I'm spending the late afternoon standing out in the rain, feeling water stream down my face. It's almost impossible to see the puddles among the bricks. The world is bright - shades of gray reflecting shades of white. As I ineffectually wipe the moisture from beneath my eyes, I wonder how it is that the storm beats the sunshine for light.

Haltingly, I proceed home, leaping from dry spot to dry spot, but still constantly getting wet. But even once I've gotten inside, the windows are still open, still waiting for the night.

The rain taps an arhythmic melody, keeping scattered time as the evening progresses, and I tug down the blinds. I snap on my desk lamp, invoking coziness, warmth - everything that cannot be found outside. I do not change my clothes, but shiver as I dry.

When the rain petters out, the last few drops pressing on like a runner's final gasping strides, it's midnight. Sighing, I change clothes, crawl into bed, cut off the light. They tell me that the days are getting longer, the weather's getting warmer, and those sleepless nights are not so cold. They tell me, but I snuggle up to empty air and wonder how you're wasting your warmth tonight.