Waving Not Drowning

A certain stirring lingers deep in her gut. Nat can't shake it but for the life of her she can't name it, either. Hour after hour of plugging straight through and now she hits the pillow at night and wakes up oblivious to her surroundings. At least she's sleeping. Deep, dreamless exhaustion. If only she'd strung herself out like this months earlier she'd have saved herself the anixiety of insomnia and long dark nights of the soul, counting down minutes til sunrise and the dawn of a new day. Another cycle completed. The world keeps turning regardless of how mired in stasis Nat is. There's hope in that, she thinks. She charts the shape of the moon. Full, half, quarter, crescent. On cloudy nights she draws the curtains and drowns herself in Rachmaninoff, headphones cradling her ears on the pillow. When sleep won't come the music lulls her into a semi catatonic state. Nat's not sure it's restorative or meditative but it drowns out the interior noise whic...

It's a long drive, up north. Past a myriad of small communities, tiny one horse towns with similar sounding names, ending in brook or hurst or steed. The occasional signs of big box stores and chain  groceries glow in the dark off an exit ramp in the distance. Last chance for food, shelter, gas and family size jars of dijon mustard and 46 rolls of toilet paper for 34 miles. Hawks circle above, banking, soaring, catching updrafts and hovering effortlessly above the treeline. There's rain in the air, a faint shift in barometric pressure. Should've packed a tarp. Should've packed her life, jammed her belongings into boxes and bags and thrown everything she's ever been into the rental car.  Never come back. No real sense of where she's heading or why she's leaving except it's something she can do. Volitional, for now, at least. No set schedule, no dependents, no rhyme nor reason to anything anymore. Despondency, ambivalence. These are foreign words now tatto...

It's a waiting game. She's made it through the first phase. Apparently her results are "acceptable" to move onto Phase Two. Then there's Phase Three, but she's confused as to whether Two and Three will overlap or run sequentially. Either or, the faster the better. It's the not knowing; waiting to learn if her body is "acceptable" on all counts. Lyne asked her today to find out about a blood match- that way they can see if they're even compatible for donation but when Stevie inquired, her transplant co ordinator said it's actually a tissue match, only done once the rest of the tests are underway. Now she waits for a CT abdominal scan, chest xray, stress echocardiogram and a GFR, or renal scan. Then she moves onto a psych evaluation before meeting with the Nephrologist because they really want to make sure she's emotionally and psychologically stable enough to donate an organ. There are questions: What if something goes wrong? What if a...

Jesus, that was beautiful. The way you moved across the floor there and just kinda swung around the corner of that table. Fabulous, woman. Carrying that tray with 10 sleeves of beer- now bring some of that my way, would ya? Ya, that's right, I'll have another. Or four! Dwayne's cackle quickly gave way to a lung shattering cough, with a low rattle to rival his Fat Boy permanently parked in the front stall. Cherry is now leaning against the bar rail, rolling her eyes, snapping her nicotine gum, sighing heavily. Every night it's the same thing: Dwayne and his mouth. Running like a leaky tap, one tired, creaky pick up line after another. If she wasn't so desperate for cash, Cherry'd be long gone. Back on the road, heading south, all the way down to New Orleans. It's been too long; she wasn't getting any younger. Hard to make ends meet in a two bit tavern with desperate regulars that feel entitled to slap and tickle without the accompanying tip. Cherry can ha...

Is he going to be there. She wonders about that, about running into him in a city of millions of people, of countless neighbourhoods and boroughs, hidden pockets and sharp corners. Is he even still there. It's been a long time coming; years after the two and half years where they promised each other every day they would be here, in this city; partners in crime, living through shared lessons in life and love and loss; encompassing everything, enveloped in each other's beings. If he is still there, will he be hidden or in plain view. How will she find him. She'll turn around on the platform, crossing from one train to the next. He'll be climbing a stairwell as she descends; crossing the street, ordering a cup of coffee, wandering in Central Park, singing in Washington Square, sipping cafe au laits in Greenwich just like they planned when they were one, when he was her person and she was well met. She tries to forget but he keeps coming back to her, unexpectedly, in dreams...

It's the back of his head. The shape of his neck, how his ears sit on the sides of his skull. The way his spine moves, if it's fluid or locked; Zoe falls in love with the back of his body. A rather attractive guy gets on the streetcar or passes by on the sidewalk. She sees him check her out; she makes eye contact, then starts the checklist: could I love that neck? Do I see myself with those ears for the rest of my life? That back- rather rigid and held through the thoracic mid section, doesn't seem to have a lot of awareness going on. Probably not athletically inclined. Oh, wait. No, that would never do. He has no bum. Flat assed. Oh no. Nononono. I can't see loving that, no, not me. Another man sits down. He's directly across from her in the coffee shop, pulls out his laptop, plugs in his earbuds and starts to tap away, focused and easy, with a calm, zen-like energy. Zoe is intrigued. He gets up from the table to fetch his order off the bar and she sees it: the ba...

And on the first day of May, Evan decided to turn over a new leaf. He got up early, made his bed, fixed himself breakfast, cleaned out the guinea pig's cage and packed a bag, leaving plenty of food and water and a note for Leslie upstairs. "Hi Leslie, I'll be gone for a while. Not sure when I'll be returning. Thank you for feeding and watering Fred. I've left his food on the counter and money to cover future expenses. The info for the vet is on the fridge. Oh, please help yourself to the leftover cantaloupe and strawberries- they're organic. You won't be able to contact me by cel but I will check my email when possible. Apologies for the short notice but something has come up that needs my immediate attention." And with that, Evan turned off the light above the stove, checked the timer in the living room, washed up his tea mug and plate from his morning toast and grabbed his passport and spare credit card.  No time like the present to activate extra cr...