Pictures and Shadows

The pictures of the beautiful brides lined the mantle. An assortment of hair colors with similar body types—tall and lean.  She pointed to her sister-in-law, “She’s just received Botox and $6000 dollar breast implants.”  I swirled the wine in my glass, “Wow—what does he do?”  I looked at him—thick glasses, at least twenty years older, very geeky looking.  “He’s a computer programmer and very good at what he does.”  I looked at her, “You certainly don’t need Botox, and you’re quite beautiful without implants,” I told her sincerely.  She is a strikingly beautiful woman possessing the prettiest blue-green eyes and gentle smile; unlike some Swans, she’s a woman of substance. 

In vino veritas proved itself to be a true maxim, as she revealed things about herself while the girls played upstairs.  “I was married before; it lasted nine months.  I met my current husband at a shore house that a bunch of friends rented together four months after my divorce.”  I could easily see why she wasn’t on the market long. Her husband is out of town for training, and yesterday was her birthday.  She’s nine years older than me and infinitely prettier, hence her hiccup between marriages and my perpetual sentence in solitary confinement.

“Have you been getting enough sleep?” she asked gently as I drank my wine.  “Define 'enough.'  Enough to function, yes.  Four hours or so a night.”  “That’s not enough—you’ll wear yourself out at that rate.”  I thought of how the night before Eliot sat with me, purring contentedly on my lap while I stared into the darkness and fought my demons and ghosts.  I chuckled at his reaction, the silly kitten curled on my lap oblivious to my struggle.  Ariel understood these things inherently, often looking into the darkness toward the same direction, ever-watchful, every-supportive. Eliot, well, Eliot doesn’t get it—doesn’t get me.  Typical male.

Evenings are the worst time for me—something about not having an arm casually draped over my sleeping body seems to cause my soul to heave in protest, so I stay up as late as humanly possible and then fall into bed exhausted.  Many nights I sleep on the couch, as at least I’m not in an empty bed alone.  Sometimes I can trick my mind into believing that I’m not really lonely if I’m not in bed alone.  It’s at night most of all when I crave somebody to talk to the most when my mind races in a million directions. Perhaps I would sleep better if I didn’t find my room to be so lonely, so desolate.  I look at the unlit candles, the unplayed stereo system, the unused half of the bed and I become quite morose.  The situation makes me doubt my femininity, my worth, my appeal.

I understand completely why babies can die from lack of touch.