Halloween Half-Truth

Even after all the time gone by...

Dressing it up never made it less real or less like the beginning of the end. Even during the holiday season, it always felt like that - felt like a gloss-over, a deception clothed in the fanciest of colors.

She still carries that one around. Pain never came in so pretty a package.

Relatable Quote #2

"It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life."

P.D. James

Warm Memory #3

As the fall season deepens, she is always remembering the beautiful things about her life, even those that ended in tragic sorrow. It is so hard to be unhappy when the world outside is so incredibly striking.

When she left that morning, the world was just waking up. The blue-black was lifting softly, slowly, though the frost left its blanket over everything. In an hour, the sun would show herself.

As she descended the steps, the click of her heels made soft echoes and her heavy coat swished like it was the most natural scene in the universe. She wasn't alone and yet, she knew someplace inside, that it was only her mind that was keeping her company that day. Life would never be the same.

And the world felt electrified, fuzzed over like the natural skin of a peach or the brush of a familiar cheek. Had it really only been five hours? She could still feel the lightswitch, could still feel desperation on her lips. Had she really needed this long? Is this what made it all complete?

She was never sure. As she drove that morning, headed nowhere on a familiar road, she knew it would never be the same after that. She was turned over, her mind changed,...never to return to its original setting again.

And it was the loveliest she'd ever felt.

Second Profile

Doozie McGee

Doozie is her best friend and confidante. She is the only woman in her life who knows her from beginning to end with exception of the few secrets she's never shared with anyone, but the wall.

She calls Doozie whenever the real shit hits the fan. She is her one friend she can go to without regret and without fear of rejection. She's been there from the beginning and has had both the pleasure and pain of spiraling in far enough so that she knows where she comes from.

Doozie is her soul sister, her partner in crime. She is the only person she shares a birthright and a tattoo with. And though they have discussed it many times before, that's where most of the similarity ends. They have bonded over the beauty of difference, the yin versus yang, coexisting and yet always in challenge.

She can talk to her about anything in the world, anything except him. The subject has become taboo, one she won't engage in unless she's prepared to fight Doozie, who frankly is an adversary no one wants. Doozie is strength personafied, the embodiment of resilience and confidence especially when it boils down to tough love and doing the "right thing."

She has never been good at simply "doing the right thing."

Doozie is someone she would want on her team, someone she'd go into a bar fight with, a woman she'd want to make her soup when she's sick or kick her ass when she needed it done.

She misses her terribly, every time she sends a holiday card.

Mail

Weeks later, she is at the community mailbox picking up communications she hasn't checked for in days. The weather is getting cooler outside and as she sorts, she catches sight of Noodle who is scrutinizing something he's received.

The wind was picking up, but the shelter around the mailboxes kept most of the chill at bay. She sorts through her mail pitching anything with the name "Resident" listed as the addressee. She hates to be called by the wrong name.

Bills...bills...bills...strange letter...formal looking government post...bill...holiday card...invite to a garden party (she'll never go)...invite to a baby shower (she won't be going to that either)...Self magazine (yes!)...Fitness magazine (bonus!)...bill...

"Where does all the money go?" she mumbled aloud.

The official government envelope troubled her, so she took a moment to rip through it to end the suspense. As she tore the delicate paper, catching a fingertip on the ridge (ouch! Damnit!), she notices Noodle is reading his own mail, cross-legged on the ground.

"Hey!" she greeted him. He looked kind of disappointed and troubled.

"Oh hi," he responded. He stood up, faced her.

"Get anything strange in the mail?" she asked casually, now wondering what the hell would make Noodle go bendy-legged and sad like that. He seemed like such a friendly, happy guy to her.

"Uh...just something I was expecting, but wasn't sure I'd ever really see in print," he responded. "You know how it is, you know the hammer's gonna drop down someday, but you're never quite sure when or whether or not it'll come on a good day. That make sense to you?" he asked.

"Sure does," she replied. She looked at her own open letter. Her community service assignment at St. Nick's. She had to report Monday at 8 am. Shit, that was only three days away!

"What's that?" he asked her.

"My community service detail," she said. "You know, from that mess I started awhile back. Doing it at St. Nick's and apparently will be spending quality time with two different patients."

"Wow girl," Noodle said, widening his eyes, "they hit you hard, didn't they? That's some major time spent."

"Twenty-four hours," she said.

"In an institution for, well you know," he said. "I haven't been here in town long, but I know about that place."

"I'll be fine," she responded. "I'm a big girl and can handle mine. What's going on with you? You alright?"

"Fine," he said. "But I gotta jet. You want to meet up sometime, swap stories?" he asked. "I bet you have some doozies."

She looked at Noodle. There was the smile she had seen before, big and open. It might be really fun to learn more about this character who lived not far from her. She gave him her cell phone number and told him to let her know when and where and she'd meet him.

"Great," he said. "I'm off. I'll call you."

She watched him walk away, his eyes back on the letter in his hand. It could be anything, a "Dear John" letter, a major bill, a warrant, a death certificate, anything...

She smiled, the thought of her own assignment passing from her brain. She was looking forward to seeing him again.

Her Brand of Poison - Introduction to the Half-truths...

No one could ever call her a liar. Prevarication and fabrication were never her drinks of choice; they were bitter and spoiled the senses. Plus, she had a bad habit of wearing the falsehood on her face - in her averted eyes, her twisty mouth, and the flush that always rose up to her fair cheeks. The physicality of the lie was her overt damnation and to cope, she became an exquisite story- teller.

"Tell the truth, but tell it slant," Emily Dickinson told her once in high school. She had been sitting in her class reading the dark poems and finally, she reached a line that lept off the page and smacked of pragmatic usefulness.

Honesty is a tricky thing, she had muttered to herself, even at that young age. She never wanted to hurt anyone; incriminate herself; bring things to light that must always stay shadowed. Truth is twisty, bendy, like a silly straw in a child's drink cup or the frayed sleeve-end on a torn up GAP sweatshirt - at the end of the swirling or ragged line is something larger indeed, substance well beyond the fray.

From that day on, she focused hard on staying true to people, making life's little wonders (both bad and good) real, but always protecting from the wicked hammer waiting in the wings to smash the rest to bits. She began to gloss over everything, injecting facts into the tale that at times, verged on exaggerated, but could still identifiably be proved.

She carried the half-truths around in her purse, sealed in a little bag she kept in the side pocket, in case she ever needed one. They were various shapes, but always small, edited, easily tucked in a pinch. To the untrained eye, they may even look like candies with their vibrant little colors and exciting forms. To be blunt, they looked like Runt candies, all shaped appropriately like hearts or bananas or grapes. And they tasted better than either the entire drought of verite serum or the lie concoction that always soaked her in punch-drunk vulnerability.

No one could call her a liar. The little reliabilities always saved her from having to admit things; having to hurt someone's feelings; hell, they made her a proverbial social martyr in that no one could ever pin a wicked snap on her. She never outted herself; never made waves; never pushed the truth out far enough to do damage.

And so she kept inventing - kept writing - kept protecting - kept nurturing.


One day, her purse got heavy. She dropped it on the floor and some of the heart shaped ones rolled out clumsily onto the floor. They looked so tiny, so vulnerable lying there on the cold stone. They tipped a bit on the ragged edges and looked so tired and wounded having been in that bag so long, denied oxygen in that zipped up pocket. They were too old to use anymore. No one believed.

And on her way out, she put the purse in the Good Will box, pocketing only three she refused to abandon yet. The rest were at least ten years old and out of style anyway.

Relatable Quote #1

"I was so tired that not even my fears could keep me up long."

Samuel Clemens (better known as Mark Twain)

Small Irritation #2

Most of the time, the elements outside serve as inspiration as they make the world a more interesting residence with beautiful autumn leaves, crisp snow, and powerful thunderstorms. Sometimes, the weather proves its own foul nature by throwing a wrench into the works. Friends, that wrench is known most commonly as HUMIDITY.

It always happens on a day when she feels most beautiful, most in control of her body. She's added an extra 10 minutes to the "get-your-ass-ready-for-work" routine and therefore is done up in a most confident way. Make-up is just right and not too cakey - the hair is lying flawlessly in its subtle yet somewhat mussed position - and the ensemble is appropriately pressed.

Once stepping outside, she feels instantaneous disappointment fog her as the wet swampy heat descends. It is as if a curtain of steam has enveloped her and her coif weakens, goes limp; her eyes leak; and her pants go from crisp to a crinkled heap in seconds. A glossy, moist look takes over her visage and it is as if she spent her extra 10 rolling around like a dog in the damp grass. It literally appears as if she's sponged herself over or mashed her face into the 18th green before 8 am.

These days never come when expected, as in July or August. Rather, they come on like a kamikaze attack on a random day in October or March, without so much as the comforting warning of a thunderstorm to clear the path.

And all day, the disappointment wears down her face like a soggy cotton ball and she feels strung out and wrung up like a spongy washcloth. Ultimately on these chafing days, she feels most like a woman who put herself together for work in a gas station restroom.

Sensation #2 - Loss of Control

The most terrifying sensations are those in which the body is forced into its stress mode, all neurons and electrodes firing fanatically in hopes of solving the problem at hand or ultimately avoiding impending danger...

The morning she lost her keys for the first time sent her into a "fight or flight" panic she's not experienced since that one time she never talks about with anyone. At least back then, she knew her adversary and how to find him. The keys on the other hand, were deliberately out of sight - the little bastards.

It begins with a flood, a virtual pouring of heat starting from the scalp and working down to the organs. The microfibers stand at attention and the spine snaps straight making movement stilted and exaggerated. Then the jelly begins to slide about the kneecaps and hips, making balance a challenge. The fists clench, knuckles pulsed rigid as the antique sterling digs small imprints in her flesh.

Her teeth burn away at their own enamel as she pushes them full force against each other in a lock damn near impossible to undo, even with the right tools. Her eyes water, not tears, but some panic drops, literally leaks out the sides and attempts to soften the chiseled lines caused by the fright in her face. It never helps, only makes whatever make-up placed there a glossy goo that only helps to show her age, not conceal it.

The stomach twists, like a dishrag wrung to its exhaustion and then snaps taut. She looks her thinnest, most fit, when she's prepared to fight. The nausea undulates and rises up to the back of her throat where she would allow a scream of frustration to escape if there was room.

And it is in this sensation, this feeling that overwhelms her, that she feels detached, most out of sync with her universe - out of the control she holds so dear. The violence that erupts inside leaves her woozy and grasping at whatever guise she can pull and even then,...

She no longer recognizes herself.

Sensation #1

These are those quirky little knee-jerk, physical responses that occur whether the mind wants them to or not. Most times, these reactions follow a small action (or non-action) and can be categorized as irrational in the beginning.

No messages.
No voice mail.
No...communication...whatsoever...for...some...time...

The stomach flips over, turns in upon itself, wiggling in its own juices. Its appetite suppresses leaving it on near-full for hours at a time. While this happens, the cool tinglies dance about the surface of the arms and neck causing subtle shudders only the body can feel, not anything visible to the public. This is not necessarily an unpleasant feeling, but rather an awakening to the senses alerting the mind to be placed on its initial advisory setting.

Meanwhile, the ears tune in and the eyes focus, narrowing sharply, waiting for any pulse that would signal a communication from the outside, a blinking - on the ready - on the mark - waiting only for the "go" light.

Body movements seem exaggerated during this time and speech patterns alter causing shifty language and blubbery pauses where the articulate flow used to exist. Everything and everyone in the body's general vicinity seems pointed, more connected, and ultimately on fire.

This lasts only a short period before the mind receives the appropriate signal from the gut saying, "Girl, it's go time. Start your engine..."

Post-Sentencing...

After the verdict, she and Cordelia meet for drinks at the Rusty Rabbit to celebrate the fact that she got off with just a slap on the wrist. She and Cordelia have only been friends a short while, but have shared the same hell.

The weather had gone crisp while she had been in the courtroom. She had said a courteous farewell to Katherine who had agreed to meet her for coffee later in the month to discuss the firefly blogs. As she drove toward the pub, she twirled the idea of serving at the mental hospital for a day. Twenty-four hours could be a long time or a short while. It all depended.

Exiting the car, she pulled her jacket tightly around her thinning shoulders and headed into the Rusty Rabbit where she and Cordelia often met up to discuss life's little annoyances. Tonight they were celebrating over vegetarian pizza and microbrews.

"So, you got off, did you? You lucky bitch," Cordelia greeted her.

"Not entirely," she responded. "I have to do 24 hours of community service at St. Nick's and pay the man's med bills."

"St. Nick's? That's the..." Cordelia started.

"I know," she returned. "What was I going to do, say "Gee Judge, that place is scary and I'd rather serve at the state prison serving sloppy joes to the lifers," I don't think so!"

She looked down at the floor. St. Nick's was a little frightening in that it housed those people in the community who not only had documented mental illness - ranging from somewhat mild to the severe, but who also had committed major crimes. Typically those felons who were sentenced in conjunction with an "insanity" plea, ended up there, permanently.

"So what are you going to have to do there?" Cordelia asked, taking a sip of her beer. "You're not going to have to check in or anything, are you?"

"No," she laughed. "But it may not be a bad idea considering I'm a bit on the temperamental side."

After dinner, she bid farewell to Cordelia, with whom she promised to share her experience. As she drove home, she considered mental illness, considered what it may feel like to detach from one's sanity and let lunacy wreak havoc on society.

She came to the following conclusion, smiling as she did:

It must be the defining characteristic of being a modern woman.

Can they really lock you up for that?

Cold Memory #2

It was far easier to not know what was going on behind her back. Being intuitive and having the know-how often can become a liability. Ignorance truly is sometimes the epitome of bliss.

A bitterly chill shudder made its way down her spine the morning she found out how to check the messages. It was still incredibly warm outside, but the newest knowledge frosted over her quickly and before she could stop herself, she began to read.

She hated herself for knowing how to do this, how to keep it secret. She loathed the fact that she had one-upped him, always before feeling he was superior in knowledge. She had so desperately wanted to be dominated intellectually - wanted to be outsmarted for a change. She hated using her talents for this twisted combination of good and evil.

She never told him - always kept it in. She wanted to love him anyway, wanted to ignore what she had learned. She never called anyone, messaged anyone. She never told anyone, anything. She grew to despise her sixth sense, the one that sniffed out deception and then had the wherewithal to prove it.

Not calling him out had been a bad idea and she wonders today if it had made her weak, made her more vulnerable than she had intended. Infatuation can make women do such terrible things. Today, she knows better and can again sleep at night.

And she doesn't hate him, even today. Because it is only in knowing the darkest, vilest truths, that we fully understand and come to appreciate those elements in life that are truly beautiful.

Warm Memory #2

A lot of her warmest memories come from years back, her childhood being one that was not typical, but filled with love.

Autumn always featured some of her fondest memories, a season filled with Chex Mix, hot apple cider, and the Wizard of Oz. It didn't matter that her father wasn't home, he was there in spirit. Though at the time she did not know it fully, she spent the majority of her childhood, surrounded by her two very best friends.

Fall was when all of the wet heat subsided and the world became vibrant. She turned a year every season and became more of a woman with each new sweater, new photo, and new friend. The advent of November was her springtime, and is to this day.

'Tis the season for renewal.

Small Irritation #1

Pet peeves are just that, small irritations that begin on top of the skin and then spiral down to the places of memory, making them difficult to avoid. These little tests of patience always snap up suddenly forcing the body, the mind, even the spirit, to either a) react in a blatant and dramatic way or b) swallow down and die a little inside.

She almost always circles 'b'

Note - small irritations have the distinct potential for becoming either "big deals" or "enormous, freaking problems" later on.

She considers the vehicle signal an essential component for the driving experience. When following a vehicle (typically either an obnoxious luxury SUV or a barely-street-legal hoopdie) which then attempts to merge into her lane and/or turn entirely without signalling first, her fist instinctively comes down on her horn. It further peeves her when the driver ahead merges and once in the turn lane, then turns on the signal as if she did not already suspect the driver's intentions at that point.

Rather than scream obscenities, she always stamps her foot, taps her horn, and swears unashamedly above the sound coming from her radio.

Oblivious drivers are the number one cause for fatal accidents - anger building with each cell phone, sleepy nod, or Heaven forbid, a driver-reader. No respect points assigned.

The Sentence

In the Courtroom
Katherine was able to get her out of everything, but the lawsuit. She now only has to take responsibility for that one, malicious wire hanger.

Lawyer for Cyclops: "My client suffered tremendously at the hands of this woman, your honor. Not only did he lose his right eye in a violent way, (For those of you who don't know, the defendent hurled a wire hanger in his direction, along with other blunt objects that missed his face by the Grace of God.) but the doctor replaced the missing ball with one of the wrong color. He now has one green, one brown, a most unfashionable defect causing the most pain and suffering possible.

Judge Vere: And what pain and suffering is that, I mean, aside from the obvious physical pain of losing one's eyeball?

LC: Well sir, the plaintiff here is now a legitimate lost member of society. He no longer can date - women do not find him attractive anymore. Therefore, he has lost his ability to seek balance as well as the future comfort of domestic stability and offspring.

Katherine (noticeably disgusted and snorting a bit): Are you kidding me right now? Loss of damages to include a diminished level of attractiveness? Do you have proof? Can you justify this claim that he can no longer date?

Cyclops (speaking out of turn): Women will not even give me a chance! They're vipers I tell you - always judging on looks alone!

Katherine (smoothly): I maintain your client would be able to increase his odds, for one, by narrowing his search for a mate to a school for the blind. And frankly, there are many such schools therefore increasing his chances for survival.

Judge Vere: Hmmmm.

Cyclops (again out of turn as he has no manners or sense of the occasion): But your honor, I would never, ever date a blind woman!

Judge Vere: Then sir, I believe it is you who is evidently selective and not women. Overruled.

(To Katherine and her client): However, this does not dismiss your client of the medical bills. She must be held responsible for this portion of his pain and suffering. Would you agree?

Both: We do.

Judge Vere: Then I hereby sentence this young woman to pay for the Cyclops' medical bills (including the recoloring of the one ball of his choosing) and 24 hours of community service served at Saint Nicholas' Hospital for the Criminally Insane so that she realizes the gravity her antics carry.

(strikes gavel for effect - He really likes to use his gavel.)

Case Closed.

First Profile

Boris

He is a loyal and dutiful companion with a penchant for ground squirrels, fresh tap water, and designer sheets.

She has known Boris, the lovable gray tabby, for almost eight years now. She adopted him in 2000 at which time he was approximately 1 years-old. New to the world and lost in a rainstorm, she took him home.

Since then, her orphan boy, the only child she can speak to having raised, is by traditional standards, a spoiled rotten brat. He is in charge, the perpetual master-of-the-house, and is horrified when reminded that he does not pay the rent nor buy the provisions.

He is quite personable with guests, taking kindly to gentleman visitors in particular, and though thought at once to be a homosexual, he is not. Rather, he simply desires a male role model, one with whom he can commiserate with about the sub-standard accomodations in the apartment.

Boris, when he is not being bossy, or running off with make-up applicators, pens, hair ties, or other valuables, is quite adorable with his loving purr, soft kneads, and reliable comfort when the day gets to be nasty. Though he takes up the sweetest spots of the bed, he's not yet complained about the disruptions there.

She saved his life once, her million dollar baby, and for that, he will always be truly grateful and a loyal partner in crime.

Rule #3

Always drink decaffeinated herbal tea before bedtime. This is what keeps the creative juices flowing.

It is always the coffee dates that leave you awake at 4 am wondering if you are living the life you truly intend and you never know the actual intentions of the gentleman on the other side of that brew.

It doesn't necessarily matter how delicious the caffeine tastes.

Cold Memory...

These kinds of memories always surface by way of an innocent mistake. These are the ones she keeps deep down, in the dark places. They come to her triggered by an honest comment, typically made by a stranger.

"Have you ever had pneumonia before?" the doctor asked. "Your lungs seem pretty strong with exception of that one spot."

It took three whole months and a week to rid herself of that infection. It plagued her, made her weak. It ruined parts of her body that would take another six months to heal. She had shivered, feverish, beneath foreign blankets, waiting for medics who never came and ultimately, was given a placebo for the pain.

She never realized how deep the infection ran, how it clouded her eyes, submerged her mind beneath a film of meloncholy and malaise. Who knew it took so long to recover?

When she learned to breathe again, she still had the scars. And now, talking to the doctor, she realizes, they only show up in X-ray. This is good.

"I've had it once before," she replied. "But it seems you can barely tell as the spot is so small on that image."

Coming Home...

At the end of a long day, she comes home to an empty space.
Sometimes, she doesn't mind it - no, really.

Her home always smells of fresh paint, like she never actually lived there at all. She'd been there for nearly six months and she can't get rid of the new tenant smell. When she walks in the door after a long, tiresome day, she drops her things in a heap on the floor and instantly inhales that "you don't really live here" scent. It always takes her by surprise.

No amount of aromatherapy candles can rid her of that, just as no amount of aromatherapy can erase the memories attached to this unused space. It's almost as if she's merely a phantom, wafting about the place leaving some kind of glittering ooze rather than a legitimate presence.

Sigh.

But tonight, she doesn't mind it. Fatigue has taken root after a week of late night reading and sporadic phone calls that always shocked her from her sleep like a heart patient to a defibrillator. Why is that the strangers in her life always call after 11 pm?

She ambles about the apartment, putting things away and then changing into her comfortable evening attire. She starts the herbal tea and snaps on the television which she keeps on just for noise. Boris, her gray tabby, emerges from his hiding spot and squeaks a greeting at her, then insists on a fresh bowl of water.

She takes her Celestial Seasonings, steaming and perking, to her office where she sits down before the computer to write, but before she does, she remembers to check Katherine's blog.

Warm Memory

The most enticing memories always surface when she is trying most diligently to forget those elements in life that make her most content. Each has its own recognizable pulse that alerts her to her past in relevance to her present.

Walking through a vacant corridor, she could feel the echo of her heels against the foreign floor stones. Next to him, she felt fuzzed over, surreal, like her life wasn't happening, but was rather a snippet from a cliche Lifetime movie.

She had never been to this restaurant before - never knew what it was famous for - only that it was "classy" and required an extra hour of prep time. For a moment, she wished she had worn a skirt. She had wanted to look beautiful, make his eyes light up the way they did when she visited. He was always lighting up and it made her insides go fluid like hot apple cider.

"Two," he had said. "We have reservations."

At the time, she hadn't any.

Rule #2

This rule is one of the most difficult to follow, particularly during the coldest months of the year, when most women feel their thinnest and require the most protection from the wind.

If he doesn't fit quite right, do not take him home. Even after losing the twenty pounds, you will likely wish to have lost another ten, making you again, in need of another size entirely.

Standard Guidelines

Rule #1
And she always tries to follow her own set of rules...

Only wear eye liner during the fall and winter months. It is only during this time of year that it is acceptable to have dark eyes.

Two days later, she is waiting for a taxi so she can go pick up her car at the station.

As she waits next to her apartment complex, she meets a funny man who calls himself "Noodle."

She seated herself outside the office door as she waited for the cab she had called moments earlier. Time to pick up her car downtown. She ran her thumb over her cell phone, making a mental note to call Katherine to set a time to discuss her case. She imagined she'd hear from Cyclops' lawyer any day now.

She'd forgotten to view the blogs Katherine had told her about, but planned on doing so as soon as she caught a free moment.

The October sun was just peaking over the trees and she could hear the soft murmurings of cars accelerating someplace far away from where she sat. A new chill was in the air though she found a little warmth from the sunshine.

"Mind if I join you?" she heard a voice ask.

She turned to her left to see a man approaching her. He wore tight jeans that looked nearly black and a concert t-shirt. He looked, as her mom would say, "a bit rough around the edges" with an unruly beard and an earring in both ears. He had a winter sock hat that stopped just above his eyebrows. He was smiling as if some subtle frostiness had just melted from his tight frame.

"Sure," she responded. He looked very pleasant.

"Whatcha doing catching a taxi on a Monday work day?" he asked.

"My car was impounded Saturday," she replied. As she said this, she realized she had just become "that person" who gets arrested. She sighed.

"Damn girl, what'd you do? You don't look like the crack ho type nor do you look like a menace to society. You go out Saturday night and wreak some havoc on this dump of a town?" he asked with a joke in his eye.

"Something like that," she replied. "I threw some shit out onto the highway and got arrested for it. Some poor sap got his eye poked in the process. I'm about to be sued any day now. They booked me. I hung around about five hours and posted bail. I tell you, I'm too pretty to be in jail. Now I'm here with you. Who are you?"

"Name's Noodle," he said chuckling. "You don't strike me as a real threat in that designer outfit and perfect hair. I doubt you unloaded a dime bag during a high speed chase. You look too damn pure for that shit."

She shook her head. No one thought she was a threat, not even this Noodle character who she could tell was already patronizing her in his mind. Then again, he seemed almost genuine. She turned to him.

"Noodle? What kind of a name is that?" she asked, condescendingly.

At this, Noodle smiled more brightly and tapped his foot. His eyes seemed to sparkle, like he'd never had a bad day in his life. She wondered where that inner humor came from, the stuff that he was wearing over his body like a coat. He made it look so easy.

"Well sweetheart, if you can't tell, I'm your typical musician. What other kind of cat would call himself Noodle?" he said.

"I see," she replied. "No real job, just groupies, beer, and road trips?"

"Nah, that's not my style. I play drums for this local band and during the day, I sell appliances. Every once in awhile, I'll sit in on another gig to help some dudes out. I can hit the keyboards pretty well too. What's with the attitude this morning? You don't like musicians?" he asked.

At this, she reflected inwardly about all the musicians she had ever had the pleasure of knowing personally - all narcissist types with superior intelligence. Rather, that is what drew her to them. She smiled.

"I do like musicians; used to be one myself in one way or another. Just irritable over my charge and the fact that my boss is peeved that I'm coming in late today. It's not personal," she added.

As she said this, a taxi came barreling up the street and she stood up. She turned to look at Noodle who was fiddling with his belt buckle and sitting cross-legged on the stoop.

"You need a lift?" she asked him.

"Nope," he replied. "I don't have anywhere to go right now - just came over to meet you."

And with that, he abruptly jumped up, flashed his toothy smile in her direction, and bounded back toward a set of apartment buildings behind them. As he left he called over his shoulder, "Pretty sure I'll see you around here again."

And he disappeared around the corner.

She opened the door to the taxi and climbed in. At that moment, she leaned back and sighed. This was the season for holding hands and sharing cabs.

One Realization from Inside the Coffee House

She is still sitting and reflects upon one person while watching the brewing thunderstorm. Her coffee has become tepid.

Staring off into space, she contemplates one of her closest friends.

Cordelia really doesn't know her own potential, nor does she realize just how incredible she is. When a woman spends so much time forcing herself to be ugly and filled with fearful rage, she inevitably will have innocent beauty seeping out of the most unsuspecting places. This only fuels the disappointments.

One cannot behave like fire without having once been in desperate need of warmth.

Realization - people who often produce the most furious heat, often desire only a cool, satisfying drink - something to coat and sooth until the next disruption.
However, these are the people to keep close and who bring the most excitement.

Cordelia, wherever you are, the next round's on me.

A Change in the Elements

While sipping and thinking about the phone call, she is approached by a young lawyer lady with whom she establishes an incredible, yet brief, rapport.
She rarely talks to lawyers.

(It is here that she finally begins to catalog real names.)

She stared at her phone as the blackness of her drink seeped slowly down. He didn't leave a voice mail. He never does anymore. She closed her eyes a second and thought back to the last time she'd been in the Firefly. It'd been one of those brutally cold, Indiana nights and she had been near death with frost on her bones. (She was always getting ice on her bones.) She'd worn a white hat and a ski coat so that she could sit with him outside. It had been such a wonderful evening. Being frozen like that had never felt so much like flames. It's funny how easy it is to ignore the elements when the brain is tuned in at a higher temperature.

She smiled at the memory, debated on calling him at all. It'd been so long and yet there had been so many missed calls, so many unreturned emails. She wasn't sure she could call back without raising a signal in her gut. For now, she would think about it.

She put the phone away and picked up a magazine lying near her seat and started toying with the pages, not reading, just listening to the filmy papers crack against each other in the somewhat quiet room. It was then that she spotted the woman at the corner table, clackity-clacking on her laptop. Next to this woman sat a man in a hat and tweed dress coat, looking somewhat perplexed and peaceful at the same time.

She wondered about that couple – what was going on there. They weren't talking much. They were bathed only in the sounds of the rapid fire typing and the softness of the man's presence.

Just as she was toying with the idea of leaving, the young woman at the corner table caught her eye and shot a smile her direction.

"Hi," she said warmly.

The woman was wearing trendy spectacles, jeans and a sweater, and thin brace around her right wrist. She had a mess of unruly curls springing from her head, but though they looked in disarray, it appeared deliberately contained. If cleverness could be personified, this is what it would look like.

To her surprise, the woman left her laptop and sat down across the table from her.

"What are you doing?" she asked pointedly.

"I'm not quite sure," she responded.

"Well, I don't see you here much and when I'm in town, I come here all the time. Name's Katherine McDoogle, two o's, not o, then u. Law's my bag," she said pleasantly, but confidently.

"Nice to meet you," she responded. She gave her name.

"I work for Bull, Crass, and Strumpet in Indianapolis. No really, that's the same of the firm. I'm the youngest on the team – criminal law. I thought about medical or environmental once, but not in the cards. I even toyed with copyright law, but no money in that. I don't know if you know this, but I'm a pretty big deal," she said laughing. She was making an attempt to be humorous, probably guessing she was dealing with a big downer.

"Sounds wonderful," she responded. She closed the magazine. "Actually, I may need a lawyer."

"Yeah? What did you do?"
"Dumped a bunch of shit on a major thoroughfare and damn near impaled a passerby on a wire hanger – all by mistake of course," she said quickly.

"Damn. Why?" Katherine asked.

"Had to get rid of stuff, you know? I just couldn't manage it or keep it around anymore. Too big, too small, too awkward, you know - just stuff that had to be gotten rid of, but maybe donated to others who may benefit. Unfortunately, I didn't make the impact I'd intended," she said.

"I see," Katherine said slowly. "I think I get it. I'm not worried about the littering charge or the disorderly conduct. We need to worry about the poor bastard who is at risk of becoming a Cyclops. He'll likely sue."

"Wouldn't you?" she asked.

"Sure would. An eye's an eye. You lose one without taking one, well, that's a pisser." The lawyer responded.

"Can you help me? I mean, if it comes to that?" she asked. "I don't have a lawyer right now - not one like you anyway."

"Sure," no problem. I'll get you out of this. Sounds like some dramatic antics to me. Did you come from a broken home or have some major trauma that may cause emotional outbursts? You on any meds? Can we blame this on female lunacy? I'm all about that. Then again, I tend to be a bit emo and most of my angst is displayed on the page instead."

"You write?" she asked Katherine.

"All the time. It's kind of my thing. You see, I have a few hypertexts out there, with a cult following – creative fiction and non-fiction. Here's my card. The true stuff is on the back." Katherine said.

She looked at the card. The front side contained Katherine's office information. The back contained an image of a rain cloud swarmed by fireflies. Below the image was a web site address. She put the card in her pocket, making a mental note to check it out as soon as she could.

"Do you write?" the lawyer asked.

"Yes, when nothing else will do it. When I'm not writing, I throw shit out onto the highway in hopes of making people notice." She laughed.

"I get it." Katherine looked over her shoulder, back at her companion, who was now toying with the laptop with a smile on his face. He looked charming, like an old friend you could tell any secret to without fear.

"You need to get back to your friend?" she asked.

"He's not my friend," Katherine replied. "You are. He's someone else entirely. If this criminal case thing works out in your favor, I may have a chance to tell you more about it. Check out the web site. Only then, will you know and it's been nice chatting. Call my office on Monday morning. We'll set some stuff up."

With that the lawyer lady returned to her table. As she watched Katherine sit back down, she noticed that she broke into a large smile. Her arm brushed up next to her friend in that timid and electrifying way it happens on a first date. Fear seemed to flash over the confident lawyer's eyes, but it disappeared leaving her looking effervescent.

"Katherine's in love," she said to herself, smiling. It was then that she noticed that the sky had clouded over in a beautifully lavender way and thunder was rumbling gently. She thought back to her first love and remembered fondly that it had smelled like mocha and tasted like rain.

It was at that moment that lightening finally lit up the sky.

After the Arrest

After posting bail, she calls an old friend to take her home and he is angry having been chosen for the task. He's always angry and he didn't help with the bail money.

She sat quietly in the front seat watching the street go by wondering what other people were doing on a Saturday morning like this. The sun was shining brightly on the pavement and you'd think nothing had happened the day before. The rain had lifted and nothing felt soggy anymore. Despite having been freed at 9:20 am, she felt stressed out sitting next to him now $1500 poorer and regretting she'd called him to help.

"What in the hell did you think you were going to accomplish with that stunt?" he finally exploded.

She remained silent and continued to stare out the dirty car window. She wondered when he had cleaned his car last. My God, had he ever cleaned it? It smelled like dirty clothes and wrinkled paper. She pushed an empty soda bottle around the floor with her toe.

"I thought you'd understand," she replied softly. "I mean, it wasn't a huge deal and I thought you'd want to know – would want to help me with it."

"And post your freaking bail? I don't think so!" he returned exasperated.

"I thought it was poetic," she said distantly, now noting the disaster that was calling him to take her home. He always does this. A real friend would get it and would have helped with the bail. Hell, a real friend would have helped her dump everything out onto the street.

"And why me?" he asked, more softly, "Why did you call me, of all people? We haven't even talked in years!"

She wanted to respond with a tirade of how she thought he'd get it, thought he'd run in and save her from the big bad police. Damnit, she thought he had still cared. She thought he would welcome the chance to see her again. Sometimes, she was really foolish and thought well beyond reality. She should have known better. Time really does make a difference.

Instead she said, "Drop me off here."

"What?" he asked, startled.

"Here, at the coffee house. I'm thirsty and need a moment to myself. Let me out of this car."

"Just when I think I know you, you do something like this. Damnit woman, you are still important sometimes. You just infuriate me with your shifts in personality. I can't freaking read you!"

That's why you like me, she thought. I'm unreadable. Even in your aggravation and disappointment, I see it, even now when you're trying to be mean.

"Drop me," she said emphatically for the first time in her life.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the Firefly. He didn't pull up front nor did he park. She leaned over to open the door and he grabbed her hand.

"Listen, I don't know what you're doing here, but we need to talk about this sometime. I mean, it's all messed up for you, I get it, but seriously, don't let this whole mood I'm in upset you," he said. "You know I just get like this sometimes when I'm pressed for time and have stuff to do."

"I'm not upset," she replied. "I'm getting out. And I'm getting coffee. I'll get another ride home. I'm not mad at you either. Just want to sit, not think, and lament my lost cash. Okay?"
"Whatever," was the crude response.

She got out of the car and looked in at him, sitting there in his fumes. Sometimes, she wanted to embrace him for his frustration. It swirled around him like steam and when he wasn't aware, it even fogged the window next to him. She wished it didn't hurt him so much. But he only knew so much and she couldn't tell him the rest. Better to just leave it here in the parking lot. If he ever wanted to figure it out, he'd have to do it for himself.

It was then she began to laugh. Slowly at first and then enormous ripples of pulsing giggles flooded the atmosphere around her. He stared at her and opened the window. She threw her head back into the sun and laughed out loud.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She smiled down at him and steadied herself.

"It's just, so amusing you know, when you finally realize, you have nothing to be crazy mad about anymore."

And with that, she turned and entered the coffee shop. After about five minutes, she heard the squeal of his tires. She sat down with her mocha and saw her cell phone light up. This time, she didn't answer.

Wait, who was it?

Cuffed

Shortly after being arrested, she is interviewed by the police captain who offers her coffee which she cannot drink while cuffed to the steel chair.
She really likes coffee.

"I'm sorry about this ma'am, but you just can't go around town doing that stuff. It's against the law," he said, trying to sound fatherly. (To himself – "damn women libbers and their crazy ass notions of making dramatic statements.")

"Sir, if you'd just allow me to explain," she started.

"You see little girl, you just can't go around throwing your dirty laundry all over the street. It's not appropriate and it's disruptive. You damn near put out that poor guy's eye with the wire hanger!" he added, gesturing to a wounded sap slumped in a corner with an ice pack on his face.

She turned to look at the injured guy. She hadn't meant to really hurt anyone with it. After all, it's just laundry, right? I mean, it's her stuff. The hanger was in there by mistake. She hadn't seen it at the bottom of the hamper before she hurled it onto Coliseum Boulevard.

"I'm really sorry," she said.

"Well, you certainly have a lot to be sorry about!" the captain said, tapping his pen on his notepad. "Now tell me why in the hell you pulled such a stunt and maybe we'll go easy on you."

"Officer, it really was just a purging of stuff I can't really have anymore – stuff that won't fit right. You know, I figured someone else would benefit; they could have it. I haven't been able to wear any of it right for years and frankly, I thought someone else could make something great of it. That's all," she said, half lying. (Do people go to jail for telling half truths? She wasn't sure.)

"And the Good Will or Salvation Army wouldn't do?" he asked.

"They don't take that kind of stuff," she replied. "They wouldn't. I already asked!"

"What about the garbage?" the irritable captain said, snarfling a donut through his enormous mustache.

He really was an unpleasant guy. Who knew this was such a crime? Goodness, you'd have thought she shot someone in broad daylight. Then again, the poor chap with the bruised cornea was probably still pretty pissed off.

"All I can say is that I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't want to throw it away. It didn't seem right to waste it, let it just decompose out there with everyone else's wasted memories. I wanted to get rid of it, but didn't want it to die!"

She smiled at this, realization making a pretty curl around her teeth. She wasn't sure she really felt like that until now. And she had seen a nice looking woman pick up one of the old running shoes that had fallen closest to the gutter. She had spit shined the stripes before tucking them into her purse. The thought of that woman getting the same miles out of those shoes, well, made her feel really happy inside. The whole shebang was worth it.

"You should go out there and pick it all up, you know," the captain added.

Suddenly, she stood up, the cheap chair dangling behind her at the wrists. She hadn't realized her own strength. "Book me," she said.

"What the?"

"You heard me. If this is it, I'll do the time."

Driving Memories and Starting Over

Snippets of conversation she remembers while driving having made the decision never to talk about it again...
Feeling far better than ever before - all six of her senses begin to catch up.

On Monday, having had the explosive argument she needed to have with all of the people she wanted to, she drove home to her own place. En route, she played heavy, alternative music, allowing the angst and screaming tones to penetrate her brain. As she drove, she made the commitment to never speak on the subject again. Having exhausted all options, all opinions, she vowed never to mention it, and ultimately, never to address the conflagration again. She immediately felt better, resolved. No more. And it was then for the first time, peace settled over her frame.

With this in mind, her senses went on full alert allowing the crowding of old conversation to flicker into her brain. This time, it didn't bother her.

"You look so very beautiful in this light," he said.
Silence
"Do not tempt me."
Tears
Finally, "I won't. Just don't leave."

Synapses fire hurt and pain forward, but are thwarted by the new cooling sensation of reality and newfound awareness. Ah yes, this is healing. Words are just words, says the brain.

Smile.

"I told you so. It was never real. What the hell are you even thinking?"Silence (then smile)
"It was just, well…""Out with it. What's going on?""It was just the way the light fell on the hood of the car. It bounced into my eyes and obstructed my views. Seriously. I had it corrected about a month ago. It took awhile, but the bandages came off this week."
"So"
"It's all good. I can see with both eyes now."

Wry smile and the touch of goose bumps from the increased wind from outside. Shoulders relax and she pushes the now long hair behind her right shoulder. Yes, this feels really good.

"I'm going to beat this out of you if I have to!"
"That's not necessary."
"Why do you feel like that? It makes no sense. He's so…I mean, he's just so damn…" (flabbergasted with rage).
"I know."
"Then why?"
"It was the concussion from all that blunt force trauma, you see. Afterwards, my brain didn't sit right inside the skull – some awkward twist or turn against the wrong plate. One day, I jarred it against the inside of my car door. It wasn't on purpose, but things just sort of shook down the right way. I'm over it."

She smiles as she gets closer to home, a plan already fully formed. It's amazing how clarity and satisfaction often dance together to bring out a more well-lit path. Swallow a drink. Cool water. All it does is ice down the throat. Thank you for that.

"I swear it's not what you think. It was meant to, but I know it was, well, damnit; I don't have to explain it."
"That's okay. It's okay."
"Well, I mean, I don't want you to think. It's not you, it's just…"
"No really, I am fine."
"No seriously, it still matters. You know that."
"Okay. I understand. It can be this way instead."

Smile again.

Her stomach flutters at this and her eyes squint against the setting sun. She sighs pleasantly. This is it – the new part. This is the beginning. And it is then that she grabs for her phone and dials. Who says it has to be lonely on the high road?

To be continued…