Writer's Challenge - AKA Writer's Den, Lounge, Wreck Room etc etc

[adorable]

Valentine’s Day

I’m writing the schedule. Yet another bland task of no importance, similar to eating. The dates for next week annoy me. Like the dates from last week and the week before that. I’m sitting in your lap again, in your comfy chair with my hands loosely around your neck. You are distracted by the latest technological miracle. My focus is placing perfect butterfly kisses down your right cheek. “This thing is so complicated,” you say, wrestling your email open. The butterfly moves to your ear, and you absently bend your head to give it room to land. “Finally,” you mutter, satisfied that your superman like ability to control inanimate objects still exists. I lay my head on your shoulder and pout, “Take me to the Galapagos.” Scanning over your inbox you lightly sigh, and ask, “Why? What’s in the Galapagos?” I smile big. “There are turtles there. Big ones.” You look at me, and kiss me on the lips. You turn back to your email, and my head returns to your shoulder.
“We should move somewhere exciting,” I say, nuzzling into your neck.
“Like where?”
“Like St. Thomas.”
Your eyebrows raise at the thought, signaling to me you hadn’t thought of that one.
“Or maybe…,” I pause, suddenly unsure of such an important decision. “Well, I don’t know. Just some place where we’ll need to worry about hurricane season and barely be able to afford the insurance.” That makes us giggle. As you scroll around on your latest toy, I tell you to go to Sotheby's. It’s a favorite of ours. I bite my lip, tilting my head so I can watch you concentrate. I always love you most when your hands are focused on pleasing me. Finding it, you smile and I watch your fingers move the page down the real estate listings. Those are the houses we want. The ones on private islands or the a huge castle in the South of somewhere that we can’t pronounce or something ultra sleek in the trendiest part of New York City or a brownstone close to 221b Baker Street. Yes, a brownstone on Baker Street, we both agree, would be lovely. Close to all the quaint shops that sell fresh flowers. You point out we would be giving up a nice yard, but I convincingly argue that we could buy those ‘As Seen on TV’ upside down, tomato growing, miracle plants to make up for that and there would be no yard work ever again. That of course, makes you smile. Then you tell me that it would be nice to have one of those big metal things too, for over the island, to hang the pots and pans on. You are pretty sure you could install it yourself. Well, it would depend on what the ceiling looked like, of course. I absolutely love the idea. “Oh,” I say, more excited now, “And I think we should have one of those bathrooms too, like the one I saw in that magazine, the ones that are made of glass block and-” Abruptly, we both look up towards the door, hoping that it was just the wind. It wasn’t. Another knock comes. Louder this time.
“Yes?”
“You have a phone call from the water department about last quarter’s overbilling, would you like to take it?”
“Go ahead and transfer it to me.”

[adorable]

Following Tactic and Strategy

We will do the same things we do now, but with actual purpose. Almost every task throughout the day becomes for each other. The snow needs to be moved because it might keep me from driving to Walgreens at three a.m. to buy new lipstick. Dinner is a form of poetry, and lasagna, a new way to keep your heart soft. We will look at each other, smile and say “You didn’t have to do that.” Yet, we both know that we absolutely did. You will always be in charge of the record player because I will be busy dancing around you. That music, (their music,) is what we will dance to, every single day.

We will go to Chamber and Rotary dinners, where we likely won’t enjoy ourselves, but will love getting dressed. In our hearts we are locals, and locals are the same everywhere. Even when locals go to other, more exotic places (or around the corner), they tend to be most comfortable with other locals, at diners or at the Dairy Queen. When we walk through the door of our favorite greasy spoon on a lazy Saturday morning, in the noise of the background chatter, a little old lady will say “Oh, they look like a nice professional couple.” Then the moron who thinks that putting glass pack mufflers on his 67’ Dodge Charger makes him cool, will mutter, “Fuckin’ queers,” to the equally disturbing sight sitting next to him. We will smile at each other and agree wholeheartedly with accuracy of both assessments.

When our food arrives, you’ll immediately smile at me. I’ll look away and slightly shake my head no. My eyes will go everywhere else in the room. I’ll look at the window, the ceiling, the wall or focus on a distant chair leg. Each time I raise the fork to my lips, I can feel your eyes asking me if my throat still hurts from last night. I’ll look down at my plate and say “I can’t stand you.” You will reach over and touch my hand and innocently ask, “Why? Was it something I did?” And I will crack first and laugh because the only thing I can think of to say is “You are such a dick.”

We will study things. Sacred things like the Holocaust, the Sudan and Turkey. We take it all seriously, in the same way that scientists search for a cure for cancer. If we could just figure out the why, we could save so many people. (We just know it.) You can’t deal with the enormity of it any better than I can, but you will hold me and make sure I get through it. After, every book, every documentary, and every museum, we will sit quietly and not need to talk about it. What has always bothered you most when you have read, watched or went, (those times when you were alone,) is that feeling you get afterwards, that very real need you always have to do something. Anything. So, I will cry for them (and for us,) while you hug me tightly and stroke my hair. Consolation, is really (a beautiful) something.

We will travel. Everywhere. Life suddenly becomes an opportunity for laughter, awe and discovery. There are places we simply must go, like to the grocery store or to the Palace of Versailles. So we will go, and start planning the next great adventure on our way home from Ireland, or an exotic sun soaked beach (where we agree the water is different than the beaches we’ve seen before.) We usually see history in varying shades of brown, like an Old Western. The future though is always black and white, like the past and brilliant tropical color tends to excite us. There will be lists. You will keep the lists because I prefer to write on little pieces of paper that always get lost. We crave that feeling of standing where others once stood and to feel what they felt. The only way we can understand ourselves is through those feelings, it’s just how we’re wired. Some people love to travel. It’s so much more than that for us. We will love sharing the feelings of all, in everything, with each other.

When people throw things away, or pile them in warehouses or abandon buildings, it makes us profoundly sad. It frustrates us when people can’t see what matters. They represent history, (our feelings.) There is so much beauty in solid structure, in old age, in stillness. Those things that others are so quick to throw away and ignore could serve a real purpose. No one ever wants to take the time. We see the heart in junk, in buildings or old cars (and in each other.) We will spend entire weekends talking each other into, and out of, crazy plans to save the next something. I will likely become President of the local historical society, and you will become very good at grant writing. I imagine we will both find ourselves on the planning board at some point. Since we can both write (although our AP format is a little rusty,) we’ll just have to take turns with our submissions to the Living and Leisure section of the local paper.

Now, on this word, this, I will say we will love it. “This” will become so important to both of us. If someone were to listen to our conversation, it would be “this,” that they would wonder about. Almost every important thing we say to each other will be in the form of “this.” As in, “Have you heard this?”or “You need to see this!” or “Can you believe this?” and “This is what I think happened.” Our entire life will be built on “this.” We will remember “this” moment or will need to buy “this” for each other just because we know our other of significance will love “this.” We will relish every opportunity to share “this,” and always be looking for the next “this” to share.

We know. We, (only you and only I) know that we always kind of believed and that we, (only you and only I) hoped we would find this, this one day. And we, (only you and only I) cried because we were so very afraid that there was only us, (only one of me and only one of you.) Yet, (only you and only I) know, (somehow) that every single thing we have ever gone through has brought us right here to this moment. Right now, (only you and only I) are starting to feel exactly how the treasure hunter does when the shovel hits the lid and what it must be like to hold the winning ticket. We (only you and only I) stare at all of it, like we (only you and only I) are apt to whenever we see our own reflection.