Never My Eyes: Diary Excerpt Series Part Two

Every once in a while, someone will say your name. And my little ears will perk up, even though I try to maintain a neutral face. The conversations shifts, as often happens, and we’ll all feel the atmospheric pulse—you are present, on all our minds. Mine, in particular. Nostalgia sets into my bones, those cowering lines, and all the thoughts I suppress bubble over. Up, up, up, until each tendon is extended in a far-reaching plane towards you. No matter what, no matter who, no matter where—I’m all arrows, strung as tight as the rattlesnake. If I close my lips, but not my eyes, never my eyes, I can keep from falling and wanting.

Sometimes, a song begins to play, without my consent, because that’s not how life works, and your cocky, full-blown arrogance is nodding along, because you let me in on this particular secret. All around to my sides, and to my toes, there are peering eyes and the haze of smoke upon my lips and ears, but never my eyes.

And we do make a cute couple, just like she said—but you don’t agree, because you never agree, because you’re special—different, unique, will-o’-the-wisp. You are surely a will-o’-the-wisp, with your wily ways, inveigling the world while ancient bees wave through the air to find a well of hope. I can still feel your hand pulling me through the crowd, letting me feel like a woman.

It’s a rare moment I actually see you unexpectedly, but it’s humbling. O to be young again, like we were when we met, last year. Seems like an age when I see your face—even your eyes have changed. But not mine, never my eyes. When I see you, it’s a soul-crushing grip from someone who forgets how to hold tight.

More often than not, you rise up, unbidden, into my mind. There’s no speaking, no musical warning, nor an explanation of your visage. But there the will-o’-the-wisp is. There, there, there!

Unwilling, unbidden, undesired.

And you are here. And my mind for one moment, can remember in peace. But then, I am brought to my knees, like I always have been before, but with steely resolve nowhere to be found. The fear falls out, outpouring from my ribs, and my lungs. Straight to bits I fall. My legs are dry, as are my feet, as are my hands, and my cheeks. My mouth and nose survive as well. But not my eyes—never my eyes. 

I Count Myself as Lucky

I have this great and terrible fear. It hits me when I least expect it—at work, or while I’m cleaning, when I’m baking, when I’m reading. Nothing is amiss, yet in one fell swoop I’m overtaken by a moment of clairvoyant vision. I look forward on the years ahead, knowing that someday, I will meet someone. He’ll be important, and beautiful, and in the ways that matter to everyone else, he’ll be perfect. So I’ll smile, and count myself lucky, and let him love me. The world will fall into a subtle harmony. I shall not want for comfort, or affection, or respect, or attention. I will count myself lucky.

And the best laid plans will go according to plan. Nothing out of place, nothing scary, nothing unexpected. I’ll be fine, he’ll be fine, we’ll be fine.

I’ll know, with every sinew and bone in my exhausted body, that I've found the one I’ll be with forever, if only because I know it’s what he wants. But I’ll be happy! I’ll be happy enough to sleep at night, most nights, but not every night. At times, I’ll wake up with a nightmare clawing at my brain, taking hold, making noise and digging in. I’ll reach out my hand, palm stretched, fingers open—but he won’t be there. He’ll be there, but not him. Never him. And that’s okay, I’ll tell myself through the night visions, the tossy-turnies, the midnight wake-ups. He wasn't great at comfort anyway.

But in the waking hours, when the night is gone, I’ll count myself lucky. Surrounded by my love, and my kids, and the life we've built together. I’ll remind myself that I am the winner—I have a family, and a world that is not just mine. I won. He’ll never be the victor, because I’m the one who came out on top. He hasn't found a person to hold him at night, and if he has it was for one night. Does he have sticky hands and sweet baby cheeks to sing to, to love on, to remind him that he’s done it right? Because I will. All the countless hours spent holding them close and smiling at him, and staying up to keep them safe and to make the nightmares they inherited from their mother dissipate with kisses and stories.  Those will be my trophies, my proof of the battle being won, of besting him with my dreams come true. I’ll be all aglow with marital bliss and plastered on smiles, and genuine joy because my little ones are climbing up and up onto the tippy top of my heart.

Everything will come tumbling down one day—in the minutest of ways. I’ll find out, casually because no one will mean to hurt me, that he is happy. He found a girl, a girl with blonde hair, a girl with big happy eyes and a hint of mystery in her smile, a girl with long legs and a soft smart mouth. He finally chose, finally found a reason to stay still. A reason to stop running. A reason to let the castle walls fall with a vengeance, and a reason to change. A ton of bricks will fall right on me, crushing me and pinning me. The bricks catch my breath as it runs away from my body. I’ll just lay on the floor, the chaos turning to dust around me, spiraling back to the way I once felt. All the thoughts, all the feelings. It’s time for dinner, so I go through the motions. Smile at him, smile at them, load the dishwasher, brush my teeth. Do it all over again. Over and over and over, where it stops, no one knows.

Then and then only, I’ll realize why I’m not the winner.  I had it first, I found a new home before he did, I built myself back up. He’s practically old! This wizened, withered, weathered human who finally wound up happy, is the winner.

At the end of the day, I may have more, and I had it first. But at the end of the day, he’ll look into her eyes and see her and only her. I’ll look into his eyes and see a blank slate for a life I did not have. He doesn’t think of me, and I think of him relentlessly. I’m still sad, and he’s just fine. Now what does that say about me? Winners don’t dwell, and winners forget. It’s only the unluckiest of the bunch who still want to win, who still feel at a loss when they find out he is finally happy.

I can recall with perfect clarity, and I’m sure I always will, the time when I set myself on the floor next to him. I felt shy, all of a sudden, so I kept my distance. You pouted, and beckoned me closer. I hastily obliged. I had so rarely felt like this. One could even say, I’d never felt cherished that way, and that I’d never had such a case of butterflies in my life. O the butterflies! They wouldn't stop their dizzying circles, racing around and around my body, reminding me that you were special. And I listened to the butterflies, those damn, unyielding butterflies. I believed every word they spoke. I looked at you that night with stars in my eyes, and stars on the ceiling. Enchanting, was the word of the evening. An entire world had been painted in my eyes that night.

When I glimpse at the future, I know to count myself as lucky. 

A Study in Character

I had to write about myself as though I was a character in my new writing group. It was... revealing.

The door of the café opened with the delicate ringing of a bell and a girl bustled through. She was small, but not in a child-like way—merely diminutive. She made her way through the crowded room, her dark hair glinting under the overhead lighting, her feet taking small but deliberate steps towards a table full of familiar faces. Her eyes disappeared when she smiled at all of her friends—her cheeks were round enough to obscure all other features. She took her seat and immediately fretted over her decision—should she order the turkey on rye? Or the BLT—the sandwich the shop was famous for. And although she was parched, and wanted a cool glass of coke, she resigned herself to water with lemons, as was the acceptable order. The pressure of ordering overcame her for a moment and her hands fluttered about, flipping pages while she asked around her what everyone else was eating.

The waiter was her constrict, and when he arrived she made a snap decision—chicken Caesar salad it would be. The conversation picked up after he left, and the woman found herself involved in several different debates and tangents, turning quickly from one face to another, trying to hear everyone at once, but of course, being in a seat at the far end of the table she was excluded from many a story, and she found her tales falling on deaf, far away ears.

As the night wore on, the water in her glass was refilled many times. Lack of alcohol did not stop her behavior from descending into loudness and exhibitionist tendencies. The effect of social gatherings on her mannerisms was detrimental. Determined to be noticed, she resorted to behaviors more akin to drunken women seeking the attention of the man at the bar. Her coat was shed in the ever-warming room and her skin glowed bright and soft in the light. Her voice rose above the din, while everyone else had settled into the calm of the evening. Although they were tired, her friends smiled at her antics and allowed her to enjoy her night; they slowly tuned her out and gave way to the distractions in their pockets. She left the café on the arm of a man she had met that night, peering into his eyes with hope and optimism. 

Red Rocks and Shooting Stars

I was readily determined to never love the desert. This was an easy enough task—who could love the brown, scrubby foliage and the pathetically small mountains after the grand, sweeping beauty of my home? Green and fresh and old—the desert stood no chance. Two full years of disdain for the place I begrudgingly called home—no regrets.

I had no idea that falling in love with you also meant falling in love with the desert.

The car pulled up at our destination, and I unfolded myself from the small, green, overheating mess. The ride had been long enough to make me feel old and tired. I stretched my back and gazed around while you reached over and pulled me against you. Suddenly a new sense of appreciation filled my consciousness. The red rock was stunning, ancient and sublime. The air was full of dust and history—the gigantic blue lake was nestled stoically in the background. I wanted to lose myself in that atmosphere.

We spent our days exploring the water, discovering ravines and Indian ruins, getting close to fish and pushing the limits of our lungs. We spent the nights exploring each other, discovering new emotions and stories, getting further from reality, and testing the limits of our lungs.

The stars were falling around us, every thirty seconds we got to wish on a shooting star. I thought falling stars were a good thing—but perhaps they were a warning. Even the heavens knew what we didn’t.

I fell deeply in love with the desert, and with you.

You are inseparable in my mind.

I cannot look at the vast stretches of orangey red dust and feel anything but sad. The desert rears up in my mind when I least expect it to, and with it I am a woman down. Brought to my knees with the sharp realization that you don’t want me.

Clams

The air was warm but the sun was gone—the lake was usually sunny and bright, but not today. I wandered along the rocky shores, watching the tall figure ahead of me. He called back that he would be walking around the curve of the island, and I nodded my consent. I stayed where I was. Clam shells dotted the ground, standing out against the smooth pebbles. The nearer I got to the water the more shells I saw, until they began to be not just empty fragments and broken half shells, but full clams. Most were partially submerged in the sand, with the water lapping over them. The clams were everywhere—mottled brown, slightly oblong circles in great quantities, almost as numerous as the rocks. I felt them—sharp edges and smooth centers underneath my wrinkly feet. Walking in the cool water all day had numbed me slightly to the sensation.

I crouched low to the ground, plucking one single clam from its’ watery home. I held it above me and watched it close tightly, sealing out any chance of me prying it open. My young body held itself taut above the grit underneath, excepting the slight bulge of my thighs as they squeezed out of my swim suit bottoms. I held myself carefully in that crouched position, not daring to feel the cool water lap at my rear.

I held the clam in one hand and held myself steady with the other. I looked around the water near me and selected a large rock. Then I crawled out of the water to find another rock that would stay anchored in the ground. When I found it, I placed my clam on top, and slightly brought the rock in my hand down upon it.

Nothing.

The second time I smacked much harder, and instantly felt the clams’ delicate outer home crack and crumble between the two rocks. Disgust filled me as I looked down upon the light pink flesh that I had so desired to see, being pierced and bothered by the sharp fragments that had once been its’ safe place.  One organism, sentenced to death by curiosity. Could I claim curiosity though? Or was it another emotion entirely? I could almost see a tiny pulse in the pink meat that was spread across the rough sandstone. Delicate and exposed and hurt—the clam had not meant to vulnerable. I had taken it there.

The barely swirling waters around me threatened to pull my now-dead clam back into the watery grave where they all came from. The sound of approaching footsteps pulled me out of my horrified revelry. My hasty attempts to cover the clam were not in vain.

There was no trace of my shame on the beach that day. The clam lay buried beneath sand that would soon wash away, leaving simply the leftover shell of an unsuspecting clam.

The Girl

He could never sing. Not really. I mean, he could hold a note, and his voice was nothing to cringe at—but by no means and in no way was he a singer. Which made it all the sweeter when he did sing to me. Sometimes at night, after long movie viewings coupled with sessions of sticky summer kisses, I would be tired and while holding me in his arms he would just start singing. It was always very quiet, and it was always made up lyrics about me. Sometimes just my name, over and over, and then something about how much he loved me, or how beautiful I looked. Those hazy moments during the summer were one of the many losses I faced while we transitioned ourselves into fall. We were both suddenly busy—I had two jobs, and he had work and school, and we no longer celebrated our quiet moments by lying down beside each other and enjoying the darkness.

We had fewer and fewer moments under his blanket, whispering and laughing as quietly as possible while he fumbled to find me in the folds of the covering. He would feel his way along my face, finding my lips with his own, but usually finding my nose, chin, or cheek first.

We didn’t have that as often because life had happened, and we suddenly had to force time to slow down for us. This was so unlike we had ever been before. We were supposed to have it easy. The world had been ours.

Halfway through our only summer I listened to a certain song, and showed it to him later. He liked it.

“When you cry, a piece of my heart dies, knowing that I may have been the cause. If you were to leave, fulfill someone else’s dreams, I think I might totally be lost”

It was our secret song. I played it constantly, falling in love with him, but also with the song, and the idea of someone loving me that much. I had a fantasy where he sang the song to me to propose. Made all the more meaningful, of course, by the fact that he was never very good at singing. It would be flawed and perfect if he sang it to me.

But we never got that chance.

The familiar guitar chords and soft words interrupted my studying one day. Curious, I stepped into the kitchen to discover my roommate and best friend listening to it, eyes shining. How could she know, how could she not, does she not realize, does she not see? My heart was full, my eyes were thankfully dry, but the stinging sensation in my nose warned of tears.

“Isn’t this so perfect? It’s the perfect song! I know he’ll love it. And it can be our song!” the words made no sense to me.

The song, my song, his song, our song.

 It wasn’t hers to take. It meant something to me.

The song, my song, his song, our song.

We would never dance to it; never listen to it together again.

The song, my song, his song, our song.

It wasn’t for anyone else but us. How did she not realize? It wasn’t hers to take.

The First Time

The first time I kissed him I could feel the future on my tongue. The salt in his mouth was how desire should taste. I knew that from that moment on we would be connected. Technically, this was not our first kiss. It was just the first kiss that felt like more than just a simple kiss. Our real first kiss had been on my doorstep after we packed all my things into boxes until five in the morning. He grasped my shoulders and quickly pressed his lips against mine, forgetting to pucker his own and leaving as quickly as he came. It was a perfect moment. Our height difference made it comical. I wouldn’t have minded someone else seeing us though.

                The first time we kissed, in a real way, we were sitting on my couch, discussing ‘us’. He asked me to date him and only him, and we ended the deal with a kiss. A hot, clumsy, inexperienced kiss. His limited capability in the area of kissing was charming, instead of a turn-off, which was unusual. My vast numbers of kissed men made his two kisses before me seem sad and sweet. My own personal motto seemed to always be that the only way to get over someone is to kiss any and every person who walks into my path. Unfortunately this only resulted in the worst of the worst experiences—ones that frequently ended with my stumbling walk into my apartment at five am.

                The first time he put his hand on my back and unsteadily brought our faces closer together, I learned how it felt to be cherished. Hands that held me like I was going to fall apart before his eyes—no one had ever held me that way. Generally, the fleeting moments in my love life were devoid of the love factor, and full of muffled breaths and sobs into my pillow. But his hands—they were so much bigger than mine that I looked like a child holding the hands of her father—held me like I was precious. For once, I felt beautiful, and important.

                The first time he held me in his arms as we fell asleep, I stopped having nightmares. Miraculously. For the first time in my twenty years of nightmares, I woke up when I wanted to, instead of at three am, or four am, or five, depending on when my nightmare occurred. He was my safe place.