Tag: fiction

Bonjour Facebook Moms!

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The English translation is at the bottom

J’ai un cours de français à 2h00, alors voice un poste entièrement en français. Chuis pas la meilleur à écrire en français, donc ce sera probablement mauvais.

Récemment, je pensais beaucoup de mon futur. Cette grande idée qui trouble les foules et  inspire les rêveurs. Je veux faire si beaucoup dans ma vie, trop beaucoup être franche, mais il n’y a pas de temps suffisant. Un jour je veux devenir une écrivaine qui change les opinions du monde, un autre jour je veux juste devenir un prof. Je sais que j’ai beaucoup de temps à decider, mais je suis une personne qui aime planifier. J’ai besoin de structure constante pour sentir comme un personne sain. C’est probablement pourquoi je pense que je dois planifier toute ma vie maintenant.

Pourquoi est-ce que j’ai peur d’être seul, pas seulement au sense littéral, mais dans la vie. Je pense que c’est ma plus grand peur, peut-être c’est stupide, je ne sais pas. Je sais que je suis jeune et cela signifie que j’ai nombreuses d’occasions de rencontrer les gens. Et si je manque un opportunité? Quoi alors?

Ces sentiments se sentent mieux en français, peut-être parce que ne personne comprendre. Alors la douleur sens en sécurité en une autre langue.  Mais quelle est la vraie langue de douleur? De désir? De les mots qui on ne peut pas dire, on ne veut pas dire. Tout est compliqué en Anglais. C’est peut-être pourquoi j’aime les autres langues, parce que il y a des choses je ne veut pas dire en anglais.

Par example: je me sens seule maintenant. Et je sais c’est pas le cas. Je sais qu’il y a tellement de gens qui m’aime, qui m’encourage, qui veut le meilleur pour moi. Et je suis très contente avec ça. Si contente avec ça! Mais de temps en temps je me demande si j’ai été faite pour être seul. Peut-être que c’est juste la façon il était censé être. Peut-Être que je dois être contente avec ça.

I have a French class at 2:00, so here is an entire post written in French. I’m not the best at writing in French, so this’ll probably be bad.

Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. That grand idea that troubles the masses and inspires the dreamers. I want to do so much in my life, too much to be honest, but there’s not enough time. One day, I want to become a writer and change the opinions of the world, but another day I just want to become a teacher. I know that I have so much time to decide, but I’m someone who likes to plan. I need constant structure to feel like a sane being. That’s probably why I feel like I need to plan my whole life right now. 

And why am I afraid of being alone, not just in a literal sense, but in life. I think it’s my greatest fear, and maybe that’s stupid, I don’t know. I know that I’m young and that means I have so many chances to meet people. But what if I miss a chance? What then?

These feelings are are better felt in French, maybe because no one can understand them. Pain feels safe in another language. But what is the real language of pain? Of longing? Of the words we can’t say or don’t want to say? Everything is complicated in English. Maybe that’s why I like other languages, because there are things I don’t want to say in English.

For instance: I feel alone right now. And I know that’s not the case. I know there are so many people who love me, who are rooting for me, who want the best for me. And I’m very happy with that. Really happy with that. But from time to time I wonder if I was made to be alone. Maybe that’s just the way it was supposed to be. Maybe I have to be okay with that.

I’m not too worried about it.

Tomato Red and Cherry Chapstick

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Inspired by a conversation I had about mental health with some cool peeps yesterday.

“Absolutely famished.”

“Honestly, same.”

“Should we?”

“I mean, probably.”

I held the door open for her; she slipped inside. The walls were still wet with a fresh coat of blood from a can. She ran her finger over a drop as it migrated down.

“Bad paint job.” She muttered.

“Granted, the walls were pretty hard to fix.”

“That’s what happens when you take a sledgehammer to a building.”

I shrugged, kicked open a box of pizza, and sat on the dusty floors.

“Do you even remember what this place looked like before—”

“Sometimes.”

“Why do you never want to talk about i—”

“Why did you order pepperoni? You know I can’t eat that.”

“You could just pull them off—”

“You could have just ordered cheese.”

“Next time.”

Eventually she sat down next to me, handing over a water bottle while avoiding eye contact

“How’s work?”

“Same as always, ah’guess.”

What a fantastic conversationalist. You ever yelled at yourself in your head before? Weird thing.

“Tell me one thing.” She started.

“I don’t—”

“Let me—can I just—one thing, that’s all I want to say. Can I say one thing?”

I sat silently awaiting.

“Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?” I tried.

“Why’d you take an axe to our living room, Jacob? Why’d you knock over our photos? Why’d you tear the strings of the carpet out one by one?”

“It wasn’t one by one.” Too much effort. Impressed she thought differently.

“Who are you?” She cried. No one ever means that question. “Who are you?” A little louder. “TELL ME WHO YOU ARE.”

I broke my own trust and snapped my eyes in her direction. The tight curls around her face defied gravity. Gold was missing from around her eyes; they were swollen. She wasn’t boring to look at, at all. But when I stared too long, her face mushed together. Into a Pangea of regret and pain. And she thought she didn’t know me?

“Have you ever considered becoming a model?”

“What the fu—”

“You’re nice to look at.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that.”

“Then again, I’m biased.”

“What are you doing?”

“What’cha mean?”

“You’re ruining everything.”

“It was already ruined.” I laughed a little, she didn’t seem to like that.

“I’m leaving.” She wouldn’t. I knew her better than she did. She’d stay, help me rebuild the walls. We’d paint them a new color, something hopeful. But the walls always found their own special way of not doing the wall thing. She really liked building houses.

“Did the neighbors like the baguettes.”

“Bouquets.”

“I thought you said baguettes.”

“Why would I buy the neighbors a baguette?”

“We should buy them a baguette next time.”

“There won’t be a next time. This isn’t happening again. I won’t stay anymore.” She would.  I didn’t have to say it either. She knew. Of all the houses she’d built, this one was by far her favorite.

“Lillian, tell me this. Why paint the walls if you’re leaving?”

“Walls deserve to be painted.”

“And painted, and repainted, and peeled back to reveal the last twelve colors you thought would be better.”

“I just want the house to look ok.”

“It doesn’t deserve to be standing.” There was mold. Somewhere, I was sure. She looked to be angered. Not surprising, she pointed her eyes downward, the rest of her face arching. I laughed at her, couldn’t seem to stop laughing.

She suddenly jumped up, flinging herself at the wall. She punched and clawed at the holes, wet red left behind on her clothing and fingernails.

“I’m tired of never being enough.” She kicked the bottom left corner, the only spot I’d never tried to ruin, between hot breaths, and screams

“You’re enough for me.” She stopped. Looked at me.

“Who am I?” She whispered, color dripping down her sleeves, soaking into her skin. Golden stained crisp apple candy. Chocolate made cherry. Love and hate and anger and passion and cherry red lips later, looked me in the eye, told me she loved me. Told me she didn’t know how to live without me, told me she wished we’d never met as kids, told me she wished I’d torture someone else for eternity instead, told me her demons ever appeared as men.

“Valid.” Cranberry handprints followed their way to my face, two layers of red, the third a neurological response. She began clawing at my eyes, pulled out my hairs one by one. Tore the shirt, felt the boiling heat of rage bubble over into the worst decision she’d make. Brought her palms into the air, making fists, bringing them down onto me. Over and Over. But demons don’t feel. Surely, she knew. Surely, I’d made her aware.

“Sweetheart.” I did not resist, I asked politely. But kicks and screams and piles of something else to match the else on the wall. The shelves fallen over.
I wasn’t worried. She’d rebuild me too.

Running Through A Storm

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I went on a run yesterday, which is a weird way of saying I’m trying really hard not to think about certain things. And I got some odd looks, because who the hell goes for a run in the middle of a hurricane; when the pouring rain makes your clothes stick to your skin, your hair curling around the tip of your ears and melting across your forehead.

But it’s indescribable, running in a hurricane, breathlessly flying into nothingness as everyone hides in their 4 by 2 shelters avoiding the joy of jumping in puddles, for fear of getting wet. But I’m already soaked, so there’s no point holding back – sprinting up stairs as water pummels my skin, swinging around the columns at the library pretending I’m Gene Kelly, I feel unstoppable.

And the funny thing is, the whole time I keep thinking about how this is the best way to describe what falling in love is like. As I blast Rex Orange County through my now-water-damaged headphones, I think about that falling feeling. That oh-my-god-this-must-be-what-skydiving-feels-like, that driving-with-the-windows-down-in-the-middle-of-fall, that what-do-you-think-this-text-means feeling.

Today, a friend and I discussed the struggles of being a hopeless romantic – and when I say that I mean an actual Hopeless Romantic, not just someone who cries over hallmark Christmas movies, but someone actually infatuated with the idea of love (and being in it).  I used to think my obsession with love stemmed from my constant need for validation, maybe if I was just in love I would feel great about myself! But I’ve grown fairly confident in myself over the past few years, and I’ve learned that no amount of love can bring that total validation.

Maybe it’s because I like to dissect people and figure out why they do the things they do, but I fall in love with people so easily. Head over heels in love. Far too easily. I give away little bits of myself to nearly everyone I meet, but I don’t entirely think it’s a bad thing. Who knows, maybe I’m just young and naive, but I have a hard time thinking it’s bad. What’s the harm in loving as many people as possible? And not just love in the romantic sense, but beautiful wonderful platonic love. The kind of love where you send your best friend a song that makes you think of her; the kind of love where you sneak someone a cookie from the dining hall.

What’s the harm in running through a rainstorm?
There will always be dangers; limbs to fall, wet patches to slip on, hearts to break.
Maybe running in the rain is more fun.

To the Girl Who Wants to Kill Herself,

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Don’t. Please don’t. I’m not saying that because it should be the obvious response, or because I have been trained to say this when people express suicidal thoughts. I’m just starting there, because it’s a good place to start. Don’t do it.

Do you remember your fifth birthday, that wild year before kindergarten, before you became entangled in the spiral of education-for-the-next-18-years-of-your-life? Do you remember the birthday cake? Those five lucky candles, a whole 25% more than last year! (unless your five year old brain’s math is wrong). Do you remember the way your parents smiled when you blew them out!? It was pure joy – and so what if Jeremy from next door broke your brand new lego set that you just finished! You were five – nothing could touch you.

Do you remember your first kiss? All awkward and jittery and nervous? When you had no idea where hands were supposed to be placed, and you began questioning their necessity to begin with. And if you don’t remember that moment, do you at least remember that night? The run to your phone where you could spill a brand new secret to your friends – anxiously awaiting their responses. Do you remember that absolute-teenage-bliss?

Do you remember that little girl that waved to you in the doctor’s office? With her tight braids and dancing beads. Do you remember that smile she dawned on her face? Remember how you couldn’t stop thinking about her? How she reminded you about the exciting world of motherhood that you’d have one day. If you make it to that one day.

There’s a chance you don’t remember any of it. There’s a chance that demon in your head has repainted all those old memories with a heavy ink, it’s not your fault you can’t see them! He’s covered the joy, the bliss, the hope for the future – for any future. I know what you’re feeling. There’s a chance you can remember it though, if you really try. If you scrape away that dried ink plastering the memories important enough to be laminated.

Scrape away until you’ve rediscovered the way your mother’s hair looks when she finally takes it down from a pony-tail. Can you see your brother’s head shaking when you say something dumb? Or hear the sound of your dad’s voice singing on a Sunday morning? Can you recall the time you thought you’d lost your favorite pair of socks forever, but found them later buried at the bottom of your gym bag. Do you remember that feeling?

Screw the moments, forget the details, those were never important. It’s the feelings – can you remember those feelings? Can you prove to yourself that you know how to feel something other than emptiness? Can you show yourself that this life of ups and downs is worth it? That you are and always will be worth it? Can you hit a low and be thankful to know you still have room to climb? Can you break your bones so you know they will heal?

You don’t need to scrape at your skin to be reminded of your humanity. You don’t need to hold your breath to remember you can breathe. There is a world of people out there who will count those sighs for you, just to show you that you can. You can breathe, I swear, you can breathe, I swear. You can love, I swear, you can love. Damnit, you can get through this.

Just do your best, that’s literally all you can ask of yourself. Who cares what the neighbors think if you nail post-it notes to your garage with smiley-faces and suns and things that show you the warmth you need help remembering? Who cares if your parents disown you for fear of losing the daughter they thought they raised? You won’t care about anything if you’re dead.

You won’t leave us with the image of what you did, what the demons did to you; you’ll leave us with the empty photo-book from your wedding, the empty hallways where your laughter used to ring, the footsteps in a theatre where we’d talk about the smell of the wood. Who will notice the smell of the wood with me?

To the girl who wants to kill herself, I don’t know if you want to get better. But I know you can. I know that you’ve felt, and grown tired of feeling, that you’ve hurt, and grown impatient waiting for your wounds to heal. I hear you. But don’t.

To the girl who wants to kill herself, don’t. I swear there are too many good things in this world that you’ll miss. Hamilton will still be on Broadway, we can get tickets! Stranger Things is making a new season that will be worth waiting for, and Gluten Free Mac-and-Cheese can only get better! There is so much to look forward to. Please, don’t.

Your time is not up.

 

All Gotta Bear

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You wouldn’t. The words struck fire in the hearts of the determined, and suddenly no force of nature could stop the events ready to unfold. She took the words as a bet, always wanting to prove others wrong. It didn’t matter to her so much if she was always right, but she craved finding faults in others. She searched for flaws like a small child searching for candy, clammy hands grasping at nothing but air in hopes of finding more.

She found camping distasteful, due to its lack of action. You pitch a tent and pray to the gods of camping you don’t get eaten by a raccoon. Her friend adored camping and seemed offended by her lack of enjoyment. Raccoons can’t eat you, that’s bears – Where can I find the bears, they seem more fun than you. – There’s always a cave somewhere. – I’ll see you later then. – Where are you off to? – I’ve got a bear to chase. – You wouldn’t.

She had left the tent without another word. She had never chased after a bear before, or at least not consciously. Sometimes bears would appear when one least expected them, and quite suddenly, but she’d never actively pursued one.

The woods were a mess, and not in the way woods usually were. Branches crumbled on the ground suddenly felt more out of place, and the color of the leaves somehow seemed distorted. She tried not to analyze it, there was far too much going on in the trees to make any sense, and she always seemed to get lost as soon as she began.

Bears usually left prints, or so she thought. She was no bear expert, but, of course, she would pretend to be. If ever there was something she didn’t understand, she would either pretend it didn’t exist or feign expertise. But she couldn’t seem to spot any trail.

She figured if she kept walking long enough she would stumble across something. Perhaps she became luckier with each step she took, because soon she was approaching what seemed to be a cave.

She wasn’t one to think through her choices in order to make sound decisions, she liked kicking in the front door and hoping no alarms went off. Maybe that was why she walked into the cave alone, with a headlamp and no sense of direction.

She shuffled along, but when her footstep was slightly too loud and it whispered throughout the space, she was half tempted to call out and ask who was there. Her thoughts must have echoed loud enough, for as she proceeded on slowly she could make out a figure waving to her.

Hello? She did not hold back the question this time. The figure seemed to shift slightly. Hello. His voice rang back so calmly; she couldn’t find any reason to question why he was sitting, alone, in the middle of a cave. She didn’t know how to explain herself. I was just exploring. – I can see that. – And I stumbled upon this cave. – Welcome.

            She continued on toward him, he seemed to be beckoning her through the strings interlacing his voice through echoes. How long have you been here? The question seemed reasonable to her. I should ask you the same. – Well, I just got here. – Yes, I heard your footsteps. – So, you’ve been here a long time? – I suppose. It seems irrelevant how long I’ve been in this cave. The important thing is that I am here.

Did he like the cave? She wasn’t sure why anyone would want to stay somewhere where nothing could be seen in full light. Her eyes were already growing numb from the shadowy atmosphere. He seemed to notice her discomfort. Your eyes will adjust if you give them time. – I’m not sure how much time I’m planning on spending in here. – Why are you here? – I was chasing after a bear. – Well, obviously. – Obviously? – Don’t you know, we’ve all got a bear to chase.

Laughter was dripping from his words, mixing into her mind like oil in water. She hadn’t felt any level of discomfort, but her body felt gradually heavier with each passing breath. She felt a bit winded; maybe she ought to sit down. It wasn’t long until she had joined him on the cave floor.

Why are you here? She felt the need to reciprocate his wonderings. I like to tuck myself away, escape the sunlight. It tends to be a bit too bright for me. – So you’re shielding yourself from sunlight? – There’s so much more than sunlight to be shielded from.

Her eyelids began to droop; perhaps she could get a few minutes of shuteye. Did you get lost in the woods? He seemed to notice her sudden drowsiness. I, well, I was trying to find a bear. – Silly girl, why would you go looking for the bears? They will find you.

A bear has never found me before. – Well, haven’t you lead a lucky life. – Are there no bears here? – If they are here, they don’t bother me. There isn’t much harm they can do to me in here. – Couldn’t they do the same harm inside this cave as they could outside? – Perhaps, but it wouldn’t be the same, now would it?

She didn’t know how to answer him, but she was losing interest. Her brain was slowly shutting off. She thought of the bear she needed to chase, but maybe she ought to just let it find her, yes, she ought to just let it find her. For now she would rest.

Leo

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Written on 3/1/16 in Italy

Leo da Vinci
How do you feel
The thousands of people flocking to see your art
How must you feel

Fairly arrogant I’d imagine
Of course you know your work is good
You’ve been told so many times

It must come as no surprise that I love it too
It would maybe shock you, if you knew,
That a peasant such as me, with such cheap taste, found someone’s work, as elegant and delightful as your own, appealing

Others eyes glaze over
“Yes. Leonardo da Vinci. His work, brilliant, you’re just like the rest.
Basic art lover
We understand.
No need to drag on the details of the way he contours the human face
No need to discuss the manner of which the red is brushed onto the cheeks
We understand.”

What can I say
A basic art show
Me and the adoration for Leo
Would he know?
Would he care?

Does he know he could appease any one?
Yet I wonder
Would he choose anyone at all?

Leo
Leo
Leo
The artist, the art, and me…oh

How I wish.
But the wishes of the observer are rarely granted.

But could the artist even pretend to care about the way I fawn over each painting as if it were mine to fawn over
Would the compliments quickly make an artist numb
Would he stop believing in his work
Or would he be even more boastful
And braggadocios

I guess I won’t know
Till I ask my dear friend, Leo

Private and Confidential

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This letter is strictly confidential and for the eyes of the addressee only

Dear Mrs. Addams,

I’m writing to inform you of the results from your daughter’s last visit. I am terribly sorry to tell you she has come down with, as I expected, The Smile. As cases are so rare, proper treatment has not been developed, but I ask that you keep a watchful eye on her. The Smile has been known to have drastic symptoms.

The Smile can result in fits of uncontrollable laughter, and even a permanent state of happiness. We aren’t entirely sure of the cause, but it is extremely contagious. We do warn you, and the rest of your family, to be cautious and to look for early signs that may point to development of The Smile. These early signs can include; a slight warm feeling in your chest, a slight change in mood, usually from the customary gloomy state to a slightly more elevated state of, in medical terms, ‘joy’, but seeing as The Smile is so rare there could be many more symptoms, that doctors are unaware of, in existence.

This is as much information as I can provide, I’m terribly sorry. Your daughter must live with this condition for the rest of her life. We can only hope that it doesn’t interfere with her familiar way of living. The Smile, unfortunately, has been known to extend the length of ones life, but each case has shown to be different.

If you would like for your daughter to be a part of our ongoing research for a cure, please write back immediately, if not we ask that you refrain from exposing her to the public, as her condition will affect everyone around her.

We hope your day is dark and gloomy and we send you our condolences,

Dr. Doom and the rest of the staff from the Caliginous Clinic.

SHE TALKS A MILE A MINUTE

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She talks a mile a minute
And she’s 170 miles away

We exchange hellos quickly in-between spurts of laughter
She says it’s been too long since we talked
I make a joke
She’s 160 miles away

She asks me about that thing I wanted to tell her
There are a lot of things I wanted to tell her
I color in the pages of my past with caricatures
And we laugh together at my idiocies
She’s 140 miles away

I ask her about her life, what’s new, what’s not new, I don’t really care what she talks about
I just want her to talk
She’s never been good at telling stories, but I can tell she’s gotten better
Probably from practice
I feel nostalgic for the times I heard the rough draft of her tales
She’s 120 miles away

She has to go
But goodbyes are just hyper retellings of whatever last minute thoughts we possess
Matching tattoos
Birthday wishes
Mixed drinks
Muffled laughter
She’s 115 miles away

She talks a mile a minute
But she’s still 110 miles away

Short haired redhead with glasses at Goodwill

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Inspired by a craigslist missed connections story

 I don’t go to Goodwill that often, but I love clothes and money doesn’t love me, so here’s the solution.

I just finished my shift at the frozen yogurt store. It’s been a less than thrilling day; one of the machines levers was stuck and the yogurt wouldn’t stop pouring out, so I tried catching it with my hands, but of course that didn’t work. Our bathrooms were all taken and my shift was running up, so I just slapped some hand sanitizer on and hoped for the best.

It wasn’t my smartest decision because now here I am…in this goodwill staring at you, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and I’m afraid if I introduce myself you’ll want to shake my sticky froyo-covered hand.

Your hair is cut short; it tucks in right at your chin, and I’ve never seen anyone rock bangs the way you do, but then again maybe it’s just the beauty of your red hair. I’m staring at you, and noting how I shouldn’t be staring at you so intently, but you look up. You’re holding a pair of jeans in your hand…they’re a light wash denim that have been worn in, and you lock eyes with me. You smile a little and then push up your red-rimmed glasses that I know should clash with your hair’s coloring, but instead make it shine more so than without.

You have the air about you that one might be intimidated by; I think about giving you my number, but I’m too shy for the likes of that…and you’re probably already taken, with your charisma and charm.

I look down quickly, hoping you’ll look away so I can examine you once again, but when I glance back up you’ve turned and tucked yourself into a dressing room. I would wait and see what the jeans look like and maybe introduce myself, but I’m so afraid my cake-batter aroma will scare you off.

So, I’m writing on craigslist, maybe you like craigslist? Maybe it’s a fun past time to see what other people are up to…I’ve only just discovered it, seeing as ‘how do I find the girl I just fell in love with at a goodwill’ didn’t yield as many results as I’d have preferred.

Maybe you’ll see this and we can grab coffee…or a drink, if you like bars, just anything but frozen yogurt…

Sincerely,

The human in the sports attire that smelled like cake-batter and stared at you

(p.s I hope the jeans fit.)

Wedding Dress Dilemma

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My sister and I weren’t the best musical performers out there; which was usually why we ended up playing in subway stations for some extra pocket change. She was the singer and I played guitar; we weren’t good by any means, but we were entertaining enough that some people would stop and listen for a bit, before walking away and maybe deciding to drop some change into my guitar case.

We did this about twice a week, on a good week, sometimes her throat would hurt from her unprofessional singing methods, or I would catch a headache from the array of smells a subway station could claim, but as often as we could; we were performing.

We decided to go and play a couple of songs in the underground one bleak night. It was a random day, not one of our usual performing nights, but she wanted to sing and, being the professional I was, I went along with it. The subway station near our petite place was different, to say the least, which is why I wasn’t entirely surprised to see what I did.

When I walked down the stairs, guitar case in hand, my eye was immediately drawn to the girl standing, rather confidently, in a white wedding dress. She wasn’t strikingly gorgeous or anything of that nature, but it was hard to miss her. The native New Yorkers didn’t even blink an eye when they walked past, but I couldn’t keep mine off her.

“The nut-houses you find in a subway station.” My sister commented, as we went to find a good location to perform.

“I wonder what happened, to leave her here in a wedding dress.” I replied, barely being able to walk forward with my eyes still stuck on her.

I tried to push her out of my thoughts as we started playing through our first song, but I saw her wander over; her white dress flowing behind her as it flicked up the dirt of the subway underground. She stood some feet away from us, but close enough for me to see the mascara that had soaked up under her eyes. I couldn’t keep performing with the need to know what had happened growing stronger.

“We should take a quick intermission.” I suggested, slinging the guitar off my shoulder and forcing it into my sister’s hands.

“Hi.” I said hastily as I approached. She smiled, emptily, but awaited my obvious questioning. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you wearing a wedding dress?”

“Oh, well today was my wedding day.” She stated. I waited for her to continue, but was annoyed when she didn’t give me the thorough explanation I had been hoping for.

“May I ask why you’re in the subway station and not at your wedding reception?” She laughed softly, but quickly fell into a fit of tears. I didn’t know what to do.

“He stood me up. I waited for him, at the alter…my whole family was there, you know? But he decided, clearly, today was not his day to get married.” It sounded like the first time she had pieced the words together, because clearly I did not know.

“Oh…I’m sorry.” I should have guessed that was the case, but still why was she in the subway station, what did it have to offer her?

“You and your sister sounded lovely.” I was done with the conversation, but I didn’t know how to ease my way out.

“Thanks, we actually need to start playing again, but it was nice to meet you-” I tried to walk away, but she grabbed my hand.

“Would you maybe want to do me a favor?” Her eyes, still watery from tears, showed true desperation.

I tried to tell her no, that I thought I should have gone back to playing guitar with my sister, but she wouldn’t have it.

“I’ll pay you. It’ll be like a gig.” Her words were spilling out and I could hardly keep up. “All you have to do is come to my wedding, show my parents someone good. They never met him anyways, I could say you got lost on…on-the subway…you’re not from here anyways and navigation must’ve been hard. Yes, they’d believe that. That’s all you have to do; pretend to be my fiancé. Then I’ll find him and we can just tell my parents you got facial surgery or something like that. They’re from New York, they’d believe it.”

“Wait, what?” I tried to pull my arm away from her, but she seemed to be gripping it with her life.

“Just come get fake married to me.” Her white teeth against her bright red lipstick made her look even more psychotic with the black specks running down her eyes.

I didn’t say no, and maybe, in retrospect, I should have been more clear; I shrugged. I told her if she desperately needed me, as she so seemingly did, that I would fake marry her.

To be honest I didn’t expect things to end so…interestingly. She didn’t find her fiancé, I’m not even sure if she actually had one to begin with, she married me…and her family seemed cool with it, my sister was just glad I could pay rent for a few months before I moved out and in with my wife. 

Crazier things have happened…maybe not to me, but I sure do have one hell of a ‘first-time-we-met’ story. Our tenth anniversary is next week; I bought her a subway ticket. Is it love? Well, who can say really…