I wrote these three stories in 2001, passing the time at work: waiting for the day to be over. I've always sort of enjoyed them because they do remind me of these girls, and of my own failings; they're gone and I'm older now. Until mid-2003 they sat in the blog archives for anyone intrepid enough to browse past the main page. They really deserve a bit more, I think, than to moulder so I've posted them here in the essay section. They've been revised since their original posting.

1.
Late December frosted the glass, the chill light from the street lamp cobwebed through, casting a dim glow across her face; lit her face in the most amazing way. Her eyes, sihlouetted, were like the empty sky; full but dark. We were both young, brimming over in the first attempt at saying with words feelings that were larger than what we'd ever felt before. Needing to hear them, somehow to take them from the other and make them belong in our hearts. "Tell me again that I'm beautiful," She said without vanity. I did. After that, she fell asleep and I'd forgotten about it until now.

Wherever she's gone, I'd like to tell it to her again. Not because I love her any more, nor do I intend to love anyone like I loved her again. I can remember saying the words to her because they seemed important to say, not because I understood the implications. Now, "I love you," has grown in my mind to be more than a description for a feeling, but also a promise. There have been too many broken promises, too many times that I have understood later that, "Well done is better than well said."

I'd like to tell it to her again because sometimes we need someone elses' words to make us strong. I don't want those words, spoken back when she was my whole world to have lost their meaning. I don't want to feel like all the promises I've ever made have turned into lies. She is somewhere and she is still beautiful in her own way.

2.
When I was on a hiatus from school a while back, some friends of mine and I rented a hotel room on the edge of a big lake in the Andes. Everyone but myself and a girl I wanted desperately to take my hand and let me kiss her had gone to bed. We were still in the hot tub, our fingers almost touching across the cold stone tiling. My leg lightly resting on her lap. We were both a bit drunk, young and I very much wanted to explore this girl who was looking back at me. I didn't know what words to say, and eventually we said goodnight instead.

Years later, she called me while I was at work, in the middle of a long afternoon. She was going to come down from Colorado for the weekend and was wondering if it wouldn't be too much trouble to let her stay with me. The crackle in the phone line and our hushed voices made it seem later than it was. The sunlight crossing the room could have as easily been moonlight.

Her soft voice like the snow falling past my ear in a winter night, somewhere. Then, she said, "Do you remember when we were both in the hot tub and you asked me to spend the night with you?" I didn't, but I didn't tell her that either. I remember only being insecure and going to bed alone. She said, "If I had had the strength to say yes, I think I would be there with you now. Not just coming for a visit."

All these years later she was married. This wasn't a proposition, she was just saying words that could have been true in some other place, in some other time. The fantasy unfolded in my head and the rest of the day was lost in my mind; silenced and forgotten after her words.

3.
On the patio, with a few feet separating us; a few summer months separating us the ice clinked in our glasses while the night air brought our voices lower and closer than they might have otherwise been. It wasn't enough, though. That summer I'd been away things had fallen apart.

One date had become two, then a month. Quick pecks on the cheek sunk into sofa cushions. The summer I'd been gone, though, was a summer I should have stayed near. No one likes to find that the people they want to be near are the ones furthest away. My heart broke late that July when I found out that the time I'd spent with her vanished with an email, "I've moved back in with my old boyfriend."

Those last weeks I spent picking up the pieces and lashed out at some very old, dear friends— who are not so very close or dear any more. Then, I was there, looking at her; the cause of my grief so close at hand, in me and across the table. Torn between shouting and blaming; burning one more bridge in a futile attempt to run away from my own mistake, I had another drink.

To turn that into a softer evening, to make it all something that can be ruefully laughed at: The effort almost made me cry. It's hard to realize that there is no good way, sometimes, to recover from a fall; to make up for the things you've done wrong. Middle ground is too narrow to balance upon.