Waving Not Drowning

On the first, third and fourth Tuesdays of every month Tracey finds herself in a familiar church basement meeting hall, sitting on a dented metal fold out chair, sipping on lousy but free percolated coffee from a styrofoam cup, topped up with two cubes of processed white sugar. On special days, like an anniversary or someone feeling generous, there are fresh doughnuts or a bundt cake instead of the usual variety of bulk store no-name cookies, like those weird ones with the stripes of black and white icing. Tracey avoids those unless all of the arrowroots and maple cream filled leaf ones are gone. Tracey never intended to make this a regular thing; it started 8 months ago when she saw the sign leading down the stairs on the way out of the bathroom. St Stephen's is on her ride home after Pilates class. She had to pee so badly that she stopped to use the church facilities. It was past dinner time, so when she smelled the coffee and freshly baked lemon loaf- it was a one year chip day ...

Oh darlin, don't mind if I do. Sidle on up to me and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. We can trip the light fantastic, rough and tumble in the ruins of our shared miseries and erect a monument to our mutual suffering. I like the way you talk, full of dreams and wonder, hope and contradictions. Turns me on, makes me believe I'm not so crazy, not entombed in a life of failures and whatifs. We woulda been great together before the wars, the bad decisions, the how about another, c'mon just one more days. I like the way you move, your swish and giggle, all gossamer winged grace. Untethered. Lemme fly up to meet you, unmoor myself from this hell we're anchored in. One more dance, darlin, just one more dance. One last long turn on the floor. The endless farewell, a lingering kiss, brutal embrace, desperate distraction before the sun comes up and carves us into grotesque shadows of our once glorious younger selves. Don't look at me, just bury your head in my chest and wrap...