- You Can Only Connect The Dots Looking Backwards -
* a very important FYI - for this blog post, all of the entries/stories from my journals/notebooks, I am recording exactly as written, completely unedited (though I cannot put into words the literal, physical pain I feel with each typo, each un-perfected phrase, each misspelled word - I make it a point to perfect my writing before even thinking about publishing it in any way, shape or form...but I made the decision to record the following entries exactly as originally written...for a reason. However, at some point in the future, probably, I'll re-publish this post after polishing everything to my usual standards of [near] perfection * -b.
- A B.Real Story -
She was a news reporter from Miami, based right now in New York City. She'd been assigned to write an experimental column about technology and the city. Her editor ha set her up to attend press conferences, product launches and such. She'd written some fairly brilliant columns in the few months since she'd moved to the city. Her columns, dubbed "I.T. Was Written" (I.T. like Internet Technology - get it?) had become quite popular with the readers and she couldn't be happier. She was using her freedom of press and loving it. Today she was scheduled to attend the relaunch of a new Microsoft internet technology. The event was to be held at the United Nations, which both surprised and intimidated her. She'd never been to the U.N. before. She hailed a taxi to the East side, chatting with the driver about the press conference on the way, and instructed him to pull over at a nearby U.N. entrance. She walked up the steps, through a metal detector and into the United fucking Nations! Sweet! She knew the venue itself had potential to increase readership of this story - a reporter's dream. She walked up to a woman standing next to a Microsoft sign. "Can I help you?" she asked. "Yes," I answered. "I'm here for the Microsoft press conference. My name is Belinda and I'm with the Miami Journal," the reporter said, feeling daunted by the sheer power of the venue. "Ah yes, Belinda, welcome to our press conference. I'll just lead you through to the right room." The two women walked together through the lunch room of the U.N. (which was quite crowded( and entered a room just past the lunch room, which was filled with a good number of men in full suit and tie, standing around a table of appetizers. I bypassed the "app" table and went toward a large table filled with dozens of blue paper bags with the Microsoft label. Inside was the press kit. A pretty fancy one, filled with logoed USB drives and glossy company brochures. The actual press releases were stored on the USB port and therefore inaccessible until I reached my desk with my hunk o' junk computer and uploaded the files. I grabbed one of the bags and chatted with another PR clone and eventually made my way into the adjacent main room, just in time for the main event. The lights were dimmed and the presentation began. It lasted a little over an hour and left the reporter speechless. The presentation boasted a new technology, which was ikened to the "fall of the Berlin Wall in cyberspace." Her brain scrambled to assemble the facts of the story. It was implausible. She sort of floated back through the entrance of the U.N. and fell in line with a gentleman she'd seen at the Microsoft launch. He looked at me then pointed to a black and white photograph. "That's the Yanghtze River," he said, nodding at the tasteful work of art. "It's going to dry up soon, you know." The world has admittedly reached a ciimactic time, from technology to environment," the reporter said, agreeing with the man. "That was a hell of a presentation," the reporter said. "That technology has such potentially ominous potential or possibility or whatever," she finished up. The reporter and the gentleman continued conversing as they exited the building and hit the sidewalk. Things had taken on a philosophical nature. "Can America ever have a president that actually works wit morals akin to those that wrote our Constitution?" the reporter asked. "Someone that might have some way of fixing this mess we're getting ourselves into?" "There have been great men like John F. Kennedy who have acted with the utmost grace and humility. It's possible that we may one day have ourselves a bright future," the gentleman answered. He then tipped his hat and waltzed across 1st avenue, leaving the reporter pondering their conversation. She stood idly as a man in a khaki trenchcoat approached her, stamping the heel of his boot onto her exposed toes. He stomped so hard it tore the big toenail right off. Instantly, she screamed as a man put his hand over her mouth and pulled her into an alleyway. "You weren't authorized to attend that event," the man said, still covering her mouth. Blood practically poured out of her big toe. "You've been exposed to some high-level security information. I suggest you forget this day ever happened," the vicious man said to the reporter. "I suggest you re-locate back to Florida and take up writing, say, wedding columns instead of the technology beat. Before you end up in obituaries." he threatened. "I'm going to let you go now, as long as you promise not to scream and walk on back to 1st avenue and hail a cab back to your apartment to pack. Just pretend this press conference never happened. You've been warned. Now go on. Git!" The reporter ran for a moment, then stumbled a bit, as she paused and assessed the irreperable damage the now-slowing torrent of blood had wreaked on her brand new white sandals. She shook it off then took off down 1st avenue running...never to be seen again.
-b.j.
8/20/2009 12:35 a.m.
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- A Stranger's Story - ["Who the fuck is Chachi (sp?)?" - Pineapple Express]
She walked briskly through Washington-Dulles airport, her lambskin suitcase wheeling behind her. She straightened up her suit and applied lipstick while walking. She ducked into a bathroom to quickly run her hands through her hair and wash her hands. She quickly stepped back on the flat escalator that ran the span of the airport. She stopped after a moment to purchase a copy of the Financial Times and Washington Times and left the change from her $10 bill with the clerk, making her way through the slow-moving throngs of tourists. She glanced down at her Cartier watch and frowned as she quickened her pace. Her feet were aching in her heels and she felt a headache coming on. She sighed aloud and finally made it to the exit. A car was waiting for her, curbside and she climbed into the backseat as the driver put her luggage in the trunk. To her irritation, the car's radio was tuned into the local rap station and she brusquely asked the driver to switch it to NPR before he'd even gotten to buckle his seatbelt. She scanned the FT quickly, but then concentrated on the Washington Times, poring over every story on the long ride to her destination.
-b.j. 03/01/2010
[Side Note: the "Stranger's" Stories I've written just come from intuition - I don't know who these individuals are...or if they even exist! - just FYI - in the interest of full disclosure]
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- A Stranger's Story -
He puts on a yellow polo t-shirt, khakis and a pair of loafers, studies the hotel room before leaving it, suitcases in tow. He ignores the bellhops offer of assistance and proceeds to the car, stows his luggage and straps on his seatbelt. He exits the hotel parking lot and heads to the Miami International Airport. Within an hour or so he arrives, checks in and maneuvers his way to the international gate. The plane was bound for an island off the coast of Africa, with a lay-over in Brazil. The layover had irked him, but he had been placated by his desire for the Brilliant Brazilian women who boarded the flight, some of which had joined him up in first class cabin. Beautiful specimens. He knew the route the plane was taking. After a couple of whiskeys he laid his head back and slept. He knew they were flyig through the Atlantic Ocean and would be miles from any point of land for at least four more hours. He shuddered as the thought gave him a small fright. Then everything went black and turbulance hit the plane hard. Suddenly there were storm clouds all around them and lightening struck as thunder clapped all of the passengers into states of pure fear. The oxygen masks dropped down and he put his on hurriedly, hyperventilating. He felt his stomach rise as the plane dropped suddenly in altitude. There were some broken words coming from the plane speakers, but the captain's words were near unintelligible. The man started to pray to a God he hadn't thought existed as they dropped again in altitude and heavy rain beat on the plane, visible through the windows. He took out his flotation device and positioned it aroud his neck in preparation. He did not inflate the device quite yet, though others aroud him had, in a premature evacuation effort. They were in the middle of the ocean and if they went down....and managed to live through the crash, it would be ages before help could arrive, survivors bodies floating with the strong ocean currents. The man grabbed for his 1-liter water bottle he'd purchased at the airport in some sudden nod toward self-preservation. The plane continued to drop, plunging quickly toward the dark waters of the stormy sea. Eventually the moment of impact hit and screams were heard. The stewards were trying in vain to evacuate the passengers through the emergency exits. Water quickly began filling the cabin - it came at a frightening speed. The passengers whose flotation devices they'd already blown up were pulled up with the water, like wine corks. Luckily the man was able to locate an exit and free himself from the wreckage, swimming to the water's surface before inflating his orange life saver. He still held his water bottle. He went into a shock of some sort then and didn't wake up again until the sky had darkened and the moon was visible. He didn't see anyone or anything around him. Ocean for miles and miles in every direction He wouldn't even attempt to swim against the currents and prayed that they wouldn't carry him too far from the crash site, so the Coast Guard helicopters might have a chance of seeing and saving him. Night eventually turned to day and he still saw nothing but ocean, heard nothing but the sound of the water. He took a sip of his own bottled water and tried to suppress the panic beginning to engulf him. He treaded water. He did the "dead man's float," he turned over on his back, scanning the sky for the Coast Guard help. Nothingness for hours, day once again turned to night and he consciously understood the helpless nature of his situation. The waters of the sea are a beautiful and dangerous part of Mother Nature, continually taking and creating life. Countless masses of human bone scattered the ocean floor, with the thousands of lives that had been lost at sea. He started rationing his water supply and took a small sip as night turned back to day, the situation growing hopeless. Without his water supply he'd have been dead within a few days. It's very presence would prolong his life by two more weeks, as starvation took control of his water-logged body. Days continued to pass and the man's thoughts grew exponentially crazy-like. The ocean can have that effect on a man. He stared around, swimming in a small circle, at the horizon where sky met water. He would die out here. An awful, depressing, helpless death. He could only hope his soul would eventually find peace.
-b.j. 03/01/2010
[Side Note: this story is a strange story, more so than a Stranger's Story. It was inspired by the 2009 AirFrance plane crash that went down in the middle of the Atlantic en route from Brazil to France. I heard about it on the news at the time and it stuck in my head...eventually I wikipedia'd the crash and the details described there chilled me to the core - not quite terrifying, not exactly sickening, not really any sense of dread...just...empathy, perhaps? Empathy mixed with imagination. It was at that point that I made the choice that never again would i -ever- travel on a trans-Atlantic flight. The wikipedia on the crash was that traumatic...just to read. I haven't even flown in any airplanes period since then, and while I initially planned to just never take any trip that would require me to fly over any body of water...I've since recovered from the wiki-shock and might re-consider that decision some day. Although I suppose that point is moot because, I mean...I currently have about 7 cents to my name. literally. No financial safety-net, fall-back plan, plan-b, rainy day fund, piggy bank, non-maxed-out credit card, savings account, 401k..seriously..7 cents. That's it. So the prospect of me ever being able to afford a plane ticket, let alone a hotel to vacation at or whatever is...pretty much slim to none. Kind of similar to my chances of survival - at least that's how it seems as of recent days. But that's a whole other can of worms. So, yeah...short story, long ;) ]
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- A B.Real Story - [inexplicably I had titled it - KRAM - don't have any recollection or idea why]
The fire bell rang on the 11th floor. Within minutes, members of the FDNY stormed through the glass entrance at the beginning of the long aisle of office space. The girl went from her cubicle, to the firefighter still holding the door open and had a little chat, then returned to her cubicle. After taking a quick trip of stairs up to floor 12, where the CEO had decided the event was too minor for him to evacuate, turning on his heels to the depths of the 12th floor. She peeked down to the end of the hallway, where a crowd of employees had grouped, trying to decide whether or not to go. Across the way a man stood, well-dressed, brown hair, piercing sharp eyes. She'd seen him before, skulking around the 11th floor, past the conference rooms where she routinely wrote up her articles. She walked back to her row and into her cubicle to finally finish the feature article she'd worked on for a month. She planned to surprise her editor with a finished piece in the morning. I guess some people just don't like surprises.
-b.j.
05/28/2010 2:23 am
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- A Stranger's Story - [titled: Love is love, love]
They ventured further into the remote, forested area, stealth mode, on their way toward making ends through well-thought-out blueprint plans. The silent code never stopped them cold...before. But when covert goes overt, the manpower powers down..."lay low."...maybe a day or so? "What the..." "Who that 'ho?" "Ya'll fellas sure...?" Simultaneous thoughts undo action while heaven-sents pray against heat packing, pleading to the divine above to illuminate the truth that non-street heat don't take away plans laid out for love's sweet...victory. Not a single one out there snickering. And everybody knows that no good is gonna come from futile bickering. Pause. Breathe...and remember the truth the Roc once spoke..."only love kills war! when will they learn?" The evil had their turn for too long so it's over when finally the good learn to trust...in what another historic educator also hopes they learn, in turn, that it's time "to revolt back to our Roots. use a little Common sense on a Quest to make love De La Soul, no pretense."
-b.j.
07/18/2016
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- A B.Real's Stranger's Story - [mix of real life and intuitive sensing...in re: the beginnings of the trauma that's spanned the past 11+ years of my life - heretofore to be referred to simply as "the trauma"]
He would do anything to turn back the hands of time to about four years prior. To when she had entered his life. A vibrant sprite of a girl, she'd been. Bubbly, sweet-as-pie and so very naive. She'd had no idea about the situation she'd walked into upon being hired at the company he headed. Four years later, the toll was evident on her face, her soul, her psyche, her entire being - a mere shell of what it had been. She wasn't the first to have been subjected to his company's covert and...rather barbaric tactics. Though he was quite sure she'd finally be the last.
It was ironic because she'd certainly been the longest-lasting survivor of the company's archaic rituals. "And she still has no idea, dammit," the aging, yet devastatingly handsome man thought to himself. He was watching her break. Mentally, physically, though never spiritually. It was a painful process to witness and the angst it caused him to see day-after-day had begun to have a wearing effect on his own soul as well. "Somebody's got to tell her something," a small, yet increasingly persistent voice in the back of his mind whispered. "But I don't even know the whole goddamn truth," he argued with himself. "Just the two of them know. And I mean really know," he further justified. He stopped and stared at himself in the mirror. "You're losing it, Bob," he said aloud. It didn't even matter to him anymore. He knew he was as good as dead.
-b.j.
03/22/2009 9:59 pm
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- A B.Real's Stranger's Story -
She'd haunted him in his dreams last night. The youthful trill of her laugh, the sincerity in her eyes, her unique way of dealing with the world had translated themselves into a very realistic night terror that roused him at 5am each morning, his body bathed in sweat. It was insane. He'd barely even met the girl, had seldom passed her in the hallway. He didn't know why she persisted in his memory; his mind's eye. He supposed it was the guilt in knowing. Of knowing what she'd lived through. He also knew he himself was guilty of no wrongdoing. Not directly, anyway. He never got his hands dirty, though he'd witnessed his share of morbid destruction of the body and soul. He'd witnessed the large-scale cover-ups regarding each and every other young mind in the darkness. He used to relish in it; self-righteous kids getting what (he surmised) they ultimately deserved. But this time was a whole new experience. She hadn't deserved a thing that he'd indirectly sent her way. Though amazingly she endured and survived it. And then endured some more. He wondered to himself whether he or she would ultimately die first. He silently hoped his untimely demise would precede hers.
-b.j.
03/23/2009 7:23 pm
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- A B.Real's Stranger's Story -
He knew because of his status he was privileged to more information than most regarding the situation with the girl that haunted his days and night. He wondered if he was the only one that felt this guilt. He'd have killed for a glass of Glenlivet to help take her off his mind, but he'd given up drinking almost a decade earlier. So she continued to eat away at him, unhindered. He'd spent most of his spare time lately trying to come up with a plan to fix this impossible situation. He would have to call in many favors. Flex his public and political muscle and Lord knows what else to even take a stab at ending the nightmare. People were already dead because of it. Would there be more? His thoughts turned to reparations: righting the wrongs that had been inflicted on this girl. His worst fears about this young woman's state of mind were based on the Humpty Dumpty children's story. He decided then and there he'd to anything to help. He'd sacrifice any and everything to do so. "Lord help her, she's living on a prayer," he thought aloud.
-b.j.
03/23/2009 11:00 pm
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- A Stranger's Story -
The potent scent of marijuana lingered throughout the dark empty mansion. The couple who owned the place had gone for a romantic getaway to the nearby mountains, so the intruder took his time familiarizing himself with every corner of the place. He was on assignment, as usual, and almost as if on a dime, an overwhelming fatigue filled his generally strong, Type A workaholic mindset; a rarity to a man blessed with the bone-deep endurance like his. So that was that. On a whim and in need of a rest, the man decided that he'd raid the couple's wet bar. He uncorked a very vintage, very expensive bottle of Dom Perignon. He poured the alcohol into a proper champagne flute from a rack hanging above the bar. The he stretched out on a leather recliner in the couple's handsome merlot-red library. He'd already selected the piece of literary genius he'd indulge himself in for the remainder of the evening. Anna Karenina. First Edition. His jaw had literally dropped down when he came across the tome while inspecting the couple's impressive book collection. The book's mere presence struck his generally impassive and emotionless psych. Though he seldom spoke of it and let the memories sealed within the novel's pages, it was a favorite of his since childhood. He'd always yearned - fantasized, really, that he could actually have lived the world created through the words of this Russian novel. He dismissed those petty desires with a cold quickness as his mind began traipsing through the scenes of the brilliantly written pages
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- A B.Real Story -
The pink shirt she wore had small bows on the outside of the cap sleeves. She wore a grey woolen pencil skirt and sky high black espadrilles by Coach. They laced up her porcelain shins and were tied in bows, slightly off-center. She strutted down the aisle of the pharmacy toward the cashier with halloween candies in her basket. He stepped out from one of the aisles. Tall? Check. Dark? Check. Handsome? Absolutely. With adorable dimples and a huge smile. "Those are some sexy shoes," he complimented her suavely, locking a gaze with the young woman's hazel eyes. He continued to look straight at her and almost gasped. Through her irises he suddenly saw his future playing out like a silent film. He saw their first date, watched her walk down the aisle at their wedding and even envisioned himself in the hospital room as she delivered their first book child. His jaw dropped. She smiled. "Thanks. You okay? You look a little shook." "I'm good, shorty," he whispered shakily, in awe of the reaction she'd elicited from him. "Mind if I ask your name?" he said more solidly, recovering. "You can call me Bea," she grinned (grinned, not smiled, grinned). "Well Miss B my name is CJ. I'm pleased to meet you. Do you live around here?" She normally ignored random guys hitting on her but this one was just so up her alley. As he gave her the once-over she eyed him up and down too and had a seemingly psychic vision of the two of them in bed, going at it...hard! Yum. She raised an eyebrow. "I actually live just around the corner, cutie," she said, reaching for her lip gloss. His eyes did not leave her lips the entire time she applied a sheer coat of gloss. She smooched her lips up in a kiss and blew it at him as she set down the mirror she'd picked up to ensure perfect gloss application. The kiss hit him hard. He went a little woozy, remembering his vision of a future with this girl he'd come across at this shitty ass job. "I'm studying psychology at Clemson, minoring in social work" she offered, clearly enjoying the conversation they'd struck up together. "Oh yeah? I'm on my way to becoming a social worker. Small world." "Shut up!" she quipped. "That's one of the top careers I'd love to have at one point of my life." Her phone rang. Then the entire front window of the store shattered, two men armed with machine guns waiting on the other side. He wasn't in the line of sight of the gunmen. She was. He leaned over to vomit as he watched her body pitch forward, massacred by bullets. His future wife. Gone.
-b.j.
05/18/2009 10:22
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- A B.Real Story -
She had a dream of Gil. (and he knows that I know) this is his deal: jealous, pessimistic, alcoholic, control freak, sociopathic, psychological mastermind, vengeful, scary, extremely intelligent, so tricky. Then he died.
-b.j.
07/24/2012
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- A B.Real Stranger's Story -
"I just know, okay? I don't know how I know, but I do," she muttered angrily. "I wish somebody would bloody inform me as to what the fuck is going on? Ya'll LIKE her now? Oh, I see, you're blocking. I was supposed to BE her. She was supposed to BE forgotten. Have you FORGOTTEN that? Or, for that matter, who my daddy is?!"
She was livid by that point. It amused him to no end.
"You look cute when you're mad," he said. Then smacked her ASS.
She looked ready to choke him when an onlooker interjected.
"Why do you want to be her anyway? Why do you hate being you?"
"I don't hate being me. It's just so INVOLVED being the superlative of Eve and all. Also I spent so much time and effort jacking her work, it's gotten to be entertaining to see her fail every day!" the girl suddenly wondered who exactly she was answering to.
"The Superlative of Eve, huh? Like Adam & Eve? Homegirl, I'd say the superlative of psycho is more like it. Now take 2 Excedrine Migraine, lay down, and figure out a way to clean your mess up by tomorrow morning. Don't be late. You are replaceable. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes sir, sarg..." she trailed off. a vision of war-torn 3rd world country's lingered in her mind's eye.
Or did it?
-b.j.
03/2008
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- A Stranger's Story -
He used to love the sunrise. It was his favorite time of day. In fact, he had refused - his whole life - to hang curtains on his windows - windows that always faced at least partially East. His body would warm with the morning heat as the sun rose, the beams of light bringing his mind slowly out of sleep and into consciousness...the beginning of a new day. Always a new opportunity. But damn that goddamn buzzer on his new alarm clock. His body wasn't responding, as it always had, to prods from his earthly environments. The birds singing merely annoyed him as much as the still buzzing clock. He fumbled for the snooze button and took a breath...He didn't want to sit up. He knew what he'd see and went to great lengths to avoid it. That godforsaken godzilla-sized mirror his wife had insisted on placing before their bed. He'd tried, on occasion to crawl to the bathroom in a bid to avoid having to come face-to-face with the vacuous sockets that his once lively eyes had become.
She haunted him. Every day. Her naivety. Kindness. Lilting laughter. Now replaced, similarly, by eyes that failed to sparkle any longer. He knew he'd played a large part in the vicious emotional drama she was going through, but wasn't ready to admit it.
Not until his daughters and sons eyes mirrored his own...which he slowly feared was happening. He was losing everything to avoid admitting to himself he'd help take everything from her. It was only a matter of time before it all fell down.
-b.j.
04/27/2008 2:49 am
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- A B.Real Stranger's Story -
They sat in disgruntled, yet, startled frustration. They didn't understand. They thought they knew the job they felt responsible for. In fact, they had no idea They felt like amateurs, not the geniuses they once thought themselves. The only problem was they were too foolish to admit it to themselves, let alone each other.
-b.j.
05/2008
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- A Stranger's Story -
The mistake, they all assumed (apparent in the joint grumblings of frustration) would be a costly one.
Though they'd already lost it, they had been trying to maintain an air of dignity. The most recent situation wouldn't help that. Just when things had started looking up...
The results of the...blip had catastrophic potential. The scales of justice dipped in discord. It was precisely what the other side wanted.
Karma, one young intellectual individual mused, had a tendency to relieve havoc such as what was wreaked today. She was the only one not holding her breath. Perhaps, though, that was because she was an outsider to the intimate and intricate situation.
The young one prayed that those entangled in the big, huge debacle hadn't begun to delve into their habit of nightly libations yet. Not until she reached them.
"Don't drink the wine!" she urged her brain to send this message out into the cosmos. Maybe he'd hear it. Maybe not.
She took a moment to pray for him. To pray he'd reach out for the life preserver she'd inadvertently thrown.
"Please Lord. Save his soul," she breathed the words softly.
Then she prayed again. She prayed for her prayers to be answered.
-b.j.
09/12/2008
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- A B.Real Story -
Red is his favorite color. Hers too. His eyes locked in on her shoes, while hers were drawn to his dimpled smile.
While not rambunctious, nor overly timid, he carries himself with enough confidence to know that he knows himself so well, he doesn't even have to ask nobody else.
Their eyes finally met and words he could barely remember came tumbling from his mouth. He was drawn to her in a unique way; he didn't know exactly how to pinpoint it. Just that she exuded some sort of naive sexy tomboy vibe. He wanted her, all of her, right there and right then. But what about the other woman? The one he'd been trying to let go of, the married chick whose kids he helped to raise during his brief stint in Atlanta. He didn't like the idea of dating a still-married woman. But she somehow controlled the situation; himself a helpless bystander. She'd hurt him. Many times and in many ways. He didn't know how to tell her, how to discuss his feelings with her. Every time he tried, there was some type of drama that came up. So he quietly and somewhat resentfully maintained his composure. His was a quiet soul. Somewhat introverted. What some may describe as shy. He wanted a woman with a heart like his own - someone true to herself. His prayers had seemingly been answered by "The Girl In The Red Espadrilles." He was instantly smitten.
She, on the other hand, had grown up in NY - player capital of the world. She would normally have ignored his comment on her "sexy" shoes and been on her way, but when she left the store he followed, asking for her number. It was Halloween Eve. Maybe it was something in the air, but she stopped for a moment - a brief chat. And then gave him her number.
"He's sexy as hell," she thought to herself. "Let's see where this might go."
If only she'd known.
She'd just run into what would become a head-over-heels introduction to love, southern style.
Loving hard. Trusting heartily. Learning more lessons on loss. It would be a long time before they lost each other, though. Months!
-b..j.
10/01/2008 4:09 pm
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- A B.Real Story -
She'd heard a line in a song that described her love perfectly: "the heart of an angel."
It was evident in his eyes, even before you got to know him.
They'd met over a pair of sexy red espadrille wedges, her favorite. Apparently they were his favorite too. Or maybe it was just her and the shoes provided opportunity for the meeting of two great minds.
She could envision his friendly face with fierce clarity. The dimples. The huge smile. His laugh. He'd had her at hello.
They both knew they were destined for each other. A perfect complement. They'd arrived in each other's lives after painful break-ups with their previously significant others.
They often talked, parked in her car late at night. He brought her peace in a world full of chaos. He promised he'd take care of her for life. He'd make her his wife and she was to have his baby girl.
The words "I love you," had tumbled out of their mouths as they fumbled around on his bed, readying themselves for a holy union of two bodies, each with hearts like angels.
Once it was over, they lay together. She soaked up his embrace. He'd had a long week at work but always tried to make time for her. They managed to see each other at least once a day and at any opportunity that presented himself.
She loved watching him move. Fell deeper in love with each word that passed through his lips. She knew he worked hard and loved massaging the knots out of his broad and beatiful back. Nobody else really cared for him in a way she did. They both tumbled deeper into a passionate love each time they touched. He was her king.
The one day he was gone. They were supposed to meet up after he went to the club right quick with his boys. He never showed. His phone had been shut off. She called him at work. He hadn't shown up that day. She called again the next day.
"He no longer works here," came the curt reply.
She waited a week before going to his house for an explanation. He was not there to give one.
His cousin told her he'd moved up North quite suddenly and didn't have time to say goodbye.
She didn't believe him. She knew she was in too deep. He'd been taken from her. She knew it deep down. She would never to see him again, though she continued, months later, to grieve over the loss of a potentially perfect soulmate.
Tears dictated yet another heartache. But, when would it all end? She needed to know. She needed closure. She needed him; her love. Life didn't make sense without him. So she continued praying, never to stop. She felt empty without him. She felt guilty. She was heartbroken.
-b.j.
06/14/2008
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and that brings us to the end of tonight's blog post...but don't worry, stay tuned...there's more to come tomorrow. well, technically, since it's 2:24 am right now, what I meant to say is that the rest will come later today/tonight. and after that? well...i can't promise tomorrow. but i promise tonight. and then we'll see where life takes us, kittens.
-b.
