No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
But there is something else that stings me. Burns. You were my friend first. You were supposed to be my friend too. I study Wes’s face. His purple heart hardened with cruelty into a midnight shade. He’s right where he wants to be, right next to Reed. And he does not see me.
Ruby was resentful whenever Don arranged an evening with one of his post-docs, especially if it happened to be with Valerie and her husband Caleb. She wasn’t sure why; there was just something about Val. Maybe it was the tight tee shirts or the way she clicked with Don intellectually. Ruby’s stomach always let her know. It knotted up as soon as he suggested having dinner with them. But here they were again at Shorty’s, a sports bar on the trendy Park Hill side of Denver at 7:30 on a Saturday night, about to meet Valerie and Caleb.
We were going to make big money, Ray and I, money enough to pay for my Caribbean life.
I don’t know if anyone’s ever loved me, maybe my parents did, I haven’t seen them in years, they kicked me out when I was in high school, they said they couldn’t deal with me anymore, I felt like I wasn’t finished dealing with them. I miss them sometimes, especially my father, he died a few years ago. I can’t call my mother, she won’t answer, neither will my sister.
I cherish our easy relationship, but I could never keep it going if I lost my job. Sadness squeezes around me like shrink-wrap. I can’t imagine a situation in which my husband would happily let me go off to meet my friend for drinks or dinner in the evening.
I felt warped out, brain-blasted. At one point I looked down, and my hands became my father's hands.