...a virtue.

You were the woman who wanted too much too fast.  And wondering… why you shouldn’t you have it all?  Tall, smart, able to do a cartwheel, you hold your liquor well until you don’t.  You brood chicks, fix headlights, click your heels in stilettos, shoot raccoons.  And now you are waiting. 

“Where have you been, lover?  In the belly of a large whale?  Eaten by wolves?” 

Yes.  And Yes.  You are my good time girl.  Always with lipstick and a smile, and never with too many questions.  You will wait for me patiently until the wheels come off.  

Made and Broken

You were the woman with her heart made and broken within thirty consecutive minutes.  A Friday night thick with honey and whiskey, and the hot water to weed out the difference between the two.  You were the woman in lipstick, earrings and fading mascara, stooping to shorthand courtship, which is common these days.  You were the woman with hope despite many many faulty cornerstones...a woman in waiting to be proven wrong.

Standard Protocol

You were the woman standing naked in your bedroom, wet and dripping from the shower, ear pressed to your cell phone, thinking..."Is it somehow more demoralizing to be rejected when you are wet and naked and dripping on the floor?"

Aloud you said
"OK."  (PAUSE)
"I see."  (PAUSE).
"Well, thank you for letting me know."

All of these are acceptable answers: This was not a test result revealing that you had high triglycerides, nor was it the garage man telling you that nobody makes tires for a '93 Ford Ranger anymore.   You are approaching two years of sorrow, and this is standard protocol.

The Woman Watching a Storm

You were the woman watching a storm while Tom Waits courted you through the better part of a bottle of wine.  If you smoked, you would have done that too, but the last cigarette was over a year ago, and the one before that was with a brief and distant lover, a pattern you were comfortable maintaining.

Sitting in the hurricane dusk, unsure if you loved or endured these moments, you looked South out the Broadway windows at men with their futile umbrellas.  Leaning into the wind like you do your solitude --the silence of the ceiling fan, tires on rain, the leak behind the bedroom wall, you wished for an eventual destination.      

A Composed Woman Sinking.

You were the woman who's phone rang after 13 days of silence.  Your hands were wet from scrubbing the counter-top because that is what you do when you don't know what to do.  Two rings.  A calm hello.  And then the prepared understanding tone. "I am not hopeful," you say.  A composed woman sinking.  

Do you...Swim?

You were woman who waited.  Sad and European looking.  Stripped shirt, red lipstick, black everything else.  The bar was loud and crowded and a place you normally would not suggest for a date with a stranger, but I was well written and witty and requested something chic.  

I was the man who arrived in the Capitals jacket who shifted uncomfortably in my chair for forty five minutes, arranging and rearranging the items on the table so that they could be Perfectly.  Perfectly.  Perfectly straight.  And out of no less than 45 seconds of continuous silence, I would occasionally ask questions like "So, do you...swim?" and you would do nothing to better the situation answering, "Yes.  I am able to swim."

I was the man who, until tonight, made it through 32 years of my life without ever having eaten a sweet potato.  A feat you found unimaginable.  And you taunted me sweetly, but I was further unnerved and steeled my convictions to speak less, eat more, and never see you again.

Step in Cat Shit

You were the woman awake all night, pain shooting down the left side of your body: neck --> left shoulder --> elbow --> hip --> knee --> ankle.  Capitalizing on your sleepless worry, prodding you to stumble in the dark, eat ibuprofen for breakfast, to blindly step in cat shit.