House Down the Hill, Part 6

 “Suze,” Catherine calls kindly. “Did you call the duty phone?”

I crawl out from under my bed and slowly creep into the living room, peeping around the corner. The man standing there is vaguely familiar, and nowhere nearly as tall or angular as the shadow I had seen. He has a kind face though it is currently etched with concern. A woman is entering behind him; I don’t recognize her, though she’s shorter than him. Both of them are in pajamas and look a little less than awake.

Catherine closes the door behind them as the man asks, “You called about screaming?”

I nod and Catherine stares at me. “It woke me up. Really loud, shrill screaming.” I’m holding onto the wall, still hiding behind the corner, but it doesn’t help steady me any; if anything, I’m shaking more violently now, wondering where the shadow disappeared to and if they’ve seen it.

“You said something about calling for help, too.”

“Yes. The screaming stopped when I called you…and then it started again, but someone was crying for help. They-they sounded terrified.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” the woman suggests. “It’s ok,” she insists.

Cautiously, afraid the shadow will return any second, I move towards the couch in the opposite corner. Catherine brings me a glass of water and sits beside me, rubbing my back.

“You said it was coming from down the hill?” he asks.

I nod, taking another swallow of water. “This isn’t the first time, either.”

“How long have you been hearing screaming?”

“The past couple nights. Tonight was the first time someone was screaming anything coherent.”

The man and woman nod. Catherine squeezes my hand and offers me a tissue. “Something else happened, though,” she says to me. “Why didn’t you want me to answer the door, Suze?”

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. It sounds crazy, even in my own head, but maybe it isn’t. If they had seen it retreating, they would know I’m not losing it.

“Something was at the door. It was banging so loudly. I was scared it was going to break in.”

They look at each other and the woman leans forward. “We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. We didn’t hear anything either.”

“The screaming stopped before the banging.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a nightmare?” she asks kindly.

I shake my head. “I was wide awake.”

“I don’t know how to explain what you heard and saw,” she says, choosing her words carefully. I suppose they train them in those sorts of things. “No one else has complained about screaming or loud noises out here the past couple nights. And the house you’re hearing them come from is condemned. It’s unsafe to enter. Mostly due to termite damage. But there’s nothing in that house.”

“You don’t know what I heard.”

She nods, her lips pressed as though biting back what she really wanted to say. “No, I don’t know what you heard. Because of that, I can’t do much for you right now, especially as the house is condemned and I’m not permitted to search it.”

There’s a harsh rapping on the door and I jump, splashing some of the water from the glass. Catherine takes it and sets it on the counter as the woman stands up to answer the door. One of the officers from the Department of Public Safety steps in and speaks quietly with her. I can make out some mention of the house down the hill and loud noises. The officer makes some remark about ghost stories and demolition. The woman nods and closes the door behind the officer, wishing him a goodnight.

“Why did he go?” I inquire as she sits back down.

“There isn’t anything we can do tonight. He’s going to check out the house more regularly on rounds and see if there’s anything suspicious going on. But we really can’t do much more right now.”

“What about what I heard?”

“If you’d like, we can set up a time to talk tomorrow and see if we can’t do something to make you feel better,” she suggests.

“I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

I shake my head and sit back on the couch. They aren’t going to do anything. Stupid bureaucracy has their hands tied and they can’t do anything, except offer me a counseling session or two and diagnose me as something I’m not. I’m fat and find my body absolutely disgusting, but I’m not crazy.

“Thank you for coming out. I’m sorry I woke you up,” I say, staring down at my hands.

Catherine sees them out, having some conversation I don’t stick around to hear. I grab my laptop and earbuds again and barricade myself in the fort beneath my bed. When Catherine comes in, I ignore her, turning the volume on my laptop up until she finally surrenders and crawls back under her blankets. A sinking feeling in my stomach tells me she thinks I’m going crazy and the screaming will continue anew the next night only to make me seem more so.

The house is taunting me. I’m not sure what I ever did to it other than not cross the street to pass it; whatever it is, that place has it in for me. If no one else is going to do something about it, I suppose that leaves me.

House Down the Hill, Part 5

That night, the screaming wakes me again. I double over, covering my ears, trying to ignore it. When that doesn’t work, I recreate my fort and retreat there. There are other noises mixed in with the screams tonight. Slamming doors, chains being dragged, the loud revving of a chain saw. All of it only serves to make the voice more shrill and panicked.

I call the Student Advisor on Duty, my hand shaking so much I almost select the wrong contact. The phone is pressed hard to my ear so I can hear the ringing on the other end.

“Hi. This is the CGR Duty Phone, how may I help you?” a tired but perky voice says on the other end.

“I’m in Campbell Apartments number 4 and I keep hearing screaming.”

“Screaming? Do you know where it’s coming from?” I can hear the guy on the other side moving around and the jingle of keys.

“I think it’s coming from that house.”

“What house?”

“The one next door. The creepy looking one.” The screams subside a moment and I hold my breath, hoping that would be all for tonight.

“Oh God! Oh God! Somebody help me! Help! Somebody help!” I jump and bump my head on the bottom of the bed.

“Please hurry, someone’s calling for help now,” I say, almost in tears. “Please.”

“I’ll be right over,” he says, a little more immediacy in his tone.

The words become intermingled in the shrill screams. Across the room, I can see Catherine still soundly asleep in her bed and I envy her. I envy her and am appalled at the same time. How can she not hear this?

Just as quickly as the screaming began, it stops. My mind instantly fills with images of torture and death. I have no idea what is going on, but I only hope it stops. That someone is able to do something and it stops.

There’s a knock at the door. I scramble from my hiding place, relieved the SA has finally arrived, but stop dead as I turn the corner. Stepping back a few feet, I cover my mouth, muffling the scream dying to escape my throat. An angular shadow takes up the window behind the screen. It knocks again, more insistent, and is breathing so loudly I clamp my hand tighter over my mouth to mute my cries. The shadow pounds on the door and starts rattling the door handle.

My heart is racing as I run to shake Catherine awake, shushing her as she comes to, mumbling complaints. I’m practically hysterical at this point. I can hear the pounding and rattling still and I fear the next sound will be the glass shattering. “What’s going—?”

“Shhh-shh-shh.” I’m shaking so much my voice is unsteady.

The pounding stops. I pull Catherine’s hand, trying to lead her to my little fort of safety. Fear and worry are etched across her face. There’s more knocking at the door, this time more polite. Catherine looks at me a moment before slipping from bed and heading out of the room.

“No, don’t answer that,” I whisper after her. “Don’t answer that. Catherine, don’t. Please don’t.”

A moment later I hear the door open.

House Down the Hill, Part 4

The next night I wake to screaming again, the voice shrill and sounding so close. It stops the moment I wake. Just as I’m ready to dismiss it as another nightmare and fall back asleep, it starts again, sounding more distant but more insistent and terrified. I jump out of bed and go to wake Catherine.

“Catherine,” I whisper. “Catherine, wake up.”

She murmurs something under her breath and rolls over. I shake her shoulder roughly, the screaming continuing incessantly. Catherine sits up groggily asking, “What’s the matter,” and the noise stops. I’m sure I look a bit insane, spinning around, trying to remember from which direction it came.

“What’s going on, Suze?”

“You didn’t hear it?” I ask, turning the blinds in the window to peer outside.

“Hear what?” she asks confusedly, rubbing her eyes.

I stare at her, open mouthed and wide eyed. “The screaming. It was so…so loud.”

“What screaming?”

“You really didn’t hear it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Suze.”

I sigh and close the blinds again. “I’m sorry I woke you up, Cat.”

“You okay?” she asks, already lying down again.

I nod and leave for a drink of water. I’m tempted to grab some ice cream, but I resist. I raise the blinds in the living room, peering outside for some source of the screaming. It couldn’t have been from too far away, not with as loud as it had been.

BAM!

I jump at the sound and my eyes go immediately to the house down the hill. It sits there, almost like it’s staring up at me; it looks quiet and empty, innocent. And yet there’s something about it that’s laughing at me, daring me to accuse it of being up to no good.

Closing the blinds, I set up camp on the couch with another Charlie Chaplin flick. After half an hour, it becomes obvious things won’t be like the night before. The house is in my mind and it feels like its peering in through the window, mocking my attempt to put it from my thoughts. I grab some earbuds and clear out the storage containers from under my bed, building a fort of sorts. It’s hidden from the windows and, though something sinister still seems to be lurking about, it’s enough to allow me to fall asleep to the movie.

The next day, Catherine asks if I had woken her up the night before. I apologize for it as I start replacing things under my bed. She gives me a strange look and then says, “I couldn’t remember if it had been a dream or not.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, hoping the conversation will end.

“Are you sleeping all right?”

I nod and ask her if she wants eggs for breakfast. “I’m craving eggs.”

“Sure,” she says carefully. I can feel her eyes watching me all the way to the kitchen. “You know, I thought I was dreaming.”

The pan is melting a pat of butter. I find myself concentrating really hard on what I’m doing. If I have to walk past that place today, I don’t want last night on my mind, not with as mocking as it had seemed.

“You know you can talk to me about it, whatever it is, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” The eggs are cooking beautifully, and I feel tempted to make three or four for myself instead of two with a slice of toast. Though this would have cued me to take a pill, I have already missed so many doses from an insanely busy schedule I have stopped taking them. Instead, I’m developing and relying on my own willpower.

Catherine thanks me for her eggs a short while later and doesn’t pursue further conversation. I can tell she’s worried though; her eyes on my back are as unsettling as the house’s intense presence the night before. I take comfort in knowing hers is in concern and not menace.

House Down the Hill, Part 3

By early February, I finally feel empowered to make some lifestyle changes and it starts with a prescription. I still choose not to exercise at the rec center, but I make a more concerted effort to walk to and from the main campus as much as possible instead of going in the morning and chilling out there until the end of the day when I have group meetings. The walking is a good start, I figure, and it’s not too demanding.

The only real downside is going past that heinous house more often. It’s worst in the afternoons when most people are in class or elsewhere on campus. Despite the abundance of sunlight, there’s something cold and eerie about the place, its vibe spreading like a high tide over the sidewalk. I tell myself it’s just my imagination; the hair raising on the back of my neck and the strange gust of wind as I cross the driveway are the stories psyching me out. At those times, I feel as though there are eyes, somewhere behind those boarded up windows and condemned walls, watching me and waiting. For what, I’m unsure. But I shrug it off the next moment, putting it from my mind, and am soon entering the safety of my apartment.

“Catherine. Catherine!” I sit bolt upright in bed to silence. My heart is pounding and my breath sounds loud enough to wake the neighbors. Across the room, Catherine is mostly hidden beneath her giant pink and white comforter, the colors and swirling design distinct despite the darkness. I jump out of bed and stumble, my legs shaking under me. She’s breathing softly and nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.

I wait a moment longer. Still she sleeps as soundly as ever. My mouth is dry and my body is still shaking from the shrill screaming I think I heard. For a moment, I believe I might be able to go to bed again, but it’s like a bad dream that persists; the screaming continues, with no obvious cause, the moment I close my eyes.

Pouring myself a glass of water in the kitchen, I sit at my desk to browse the Internet, hoping to find some TV show interesting enough to take my mind off of the nightmare and mundane enough to lull me into a new slumber. I’m proud of myself as I scroll through the list of recommended shows in the comedy genre. I’m already more empowered to turn down my vices—namely unnecessary sweets.

I choose something with Charlie Chaplin and, an hour later, I’m falling asleep on the couch.

House Down the Hill, Part 2

Much of why I chose to live in Campbell this year relates back to my personal health and weight. The three-block walk to and from campus everyday—which strangely felt like it was uphill both ways—would help me to start exercising more regularly. That was the general hope at least. To say I am unhappy with my body is an understatement. I can fill an entire mirror and spend the better half of an hour pointing out every single flaw: the pores on my nose are too big; my back rolls are saggy and catch my shirt to streak it with sweat when the room is humid; my stomach sags down over my jeans, even if the top is supposed to sit at my waist…I can go on for a while. And the whole time this is happening, I only feel more and more self-conscious and wish for an easy fix.

One crisp winter day, I am standing in the bathroom mirror cringing at the sorry state of my flabby upper arms when my roommate comes in, crossing her legs tightly as she propels herself forward in an awkward sort of dance.

“Sorry,” she says, fumbling with the button of her jeans.

I slip out of the bathroom as she yanks her pants down and sits on the toilet. The door blocks the hissing sound when I close it behind me. Deciding I have spent too long today poking at my disgustingness, I rummage through the closet, searching for a sweater from my sister. It’s two sizes too big and never fails to make me feel three sizes smaller than I am. Considering the torture my mind puts me through, it’s a small consolation to not feel as huge for a little while.

Slipping into the heather gray sweater, I leave the bedroom to plop down on the couch with my health science textbook. I cross a leg under me before setting it on the ground, berating myself for thinking I might be smaller than I am and could curl up on the small sofa. Soon, Catherine comes into the main room and starts browsing the selection in the cabinet over the sink.

“Want anything?” she asks, her back to me as she moves to inspect the snack cupboard.

“No thanks,” I reply, though the taste of cool, creamy ice cream melts over my tongue and fills my mouth.

She shrugs and takes out the box of granola and a bag of craisins. “How’s your day, Suze?”

“So-so.” I know she saw me prodding my collection of fatty stores, and it’s not a new sight to her. She usually makes small efforts here and there to share a healthy snack or to try a new workout class with her; the latter is the more humiliating of the two and the reason I continue to avoid going to work out.

“You know, my sister was struggling to lose weight for years. She was practically addicted to chocolate cake.” She’s mixing the granola and craisins into some plain yogurt from the fridge. “They put her on this medicine to help suppress her appetite. She’s lost a lot of weight because of it. She was telling me about it the other day when she called about her wedding.”

My textbook is trying to tell me something about sleep and healthy stress, but I can’t help but perk an ear to what she’s saying. Having tried just about every diet plan in existence since I was 12, I’m skeptical, though it doesn’t stop me being hopeful.

Catherine adds, “I could get more information if you’re interested.”

“I don’t know,” I admit; did I really want to put myself through another round of miracle fixes? Just because it worked for her sister…everyone is different, after all.

“Well, let me know what you decide,” Catherine says, to which I nod and assure her I will.

She glides to the window and opens the blinds a moment before lowering them again. “God that place is hideous. I wish they would just tear it down already.” Catherine takes her yogurt and walks to the bedroom. Before disappearing around the corner, she smiles at me. At first I think she might say something, her lips even part in preparation. Then she disappears into the bedroom.

House Down the Hill, Part 1

There’s an old condemned house across from the football field. It’s the kind of house most people cross the street to walk past. It looks rather small with the original part made of brick and yellow painted plaster, three stone steps leading to a plain wooden door. And then there’s the extension—white, wood siding with a white door and unpainted, dilapidated wood steps. The white door is stained brown and copper along the bottom as if dirt—or, if you believe the rumors, blood—had been splashed there from some commotion. The windows are boarded up with tagged plywood; any glass they used to hold is long gone, and most of the frames are broken.

The students, especially those living in the apartments just up the hill from there, call it Murder House. It wasn’t until I had decided to live in Campbell Apartments I even knew of the house’s existence. It is so far south of the main campus, with only the apartments and athletic fields nearby. Not particularly interested in sports, I never had a reason to go out that way before move-in. Then again, to say I was completely ignorant of Murder House might be inaccurate; perhaps I just hadn’t bothered paying attention to the stories people weaved of the place before classes. Stories of local high schoolers disappearing in there, shouting from deep inside in the middle of the night, or the front door opening as people passed by just after sundown. Some claim to have seen a shadowy, angular figure wander back into the house before sunrise, carrying something that occasionally resembled a meat cleaver, a machete, or even a chainsaw—their vague recounts bringing to mind something that belonged in cheap American anime.

I tell myself and my friends I don’t believe the stories. I am a mature, logical person and ghost tales are for younger audiences. That doesn’t stop my pace quickening and the hair on the back of my neck rising whenever I pass the house, though. At times, I have to chide my overactive imagination for giving into the rumors, especially at night when my roommate opens the blinds and the house seems just outside our door.

My roommate often complains to company of the house and how it ruins an otherwise lovely view. Our friends agree and busy themselves with sharing the same stories everyone seems to know. They posture for hours whether the tales are true and contemplate holding a stakeout some weekend night in our living room. The stakeout, of course, never happens, but they seem to enjoy entertaining the possibility. None of them really believe the stories, but it’s one of those things people latch onto and half hope is true. If any of it was true, after all, the University surely would have done something by now as it is their property. That, and they sort of promise our parents and guardians to provide a safe learning environment. Allowing a psychopath to live on campus does not exactly qualify as keeping students safe.

Invisible Lines

It’s the top of the world,

but not really.

The Royal Greenwich Observatory,

a tall red and white building atop a

steep gray and green hill under

gray, somber clouds. A large orange

globe sits impaled on a spire

piercing the sky. From this, all the invisible

ships will set their clocks and dash off

around the world. I, on the other hand,

am reminded of a giant juicy peach

slipping down the Empire State Building.

A pigeon hops and flutters across a

glass-like line in the ground.

The students toss bits of bread and crackers

left from snacks and lunch around the pier,

watching him skitter to eat his fill.

He thoughtlessly skips from one side

to the other, not realizing the importance

of being an hour ahead or behind.

How foolish we must seem, making

such a commotion over an invisible barrier

and a fictional concept

such as time zones.

Bed of Tears

Pull the blanket tighter.

Feel its warmth, like a

friendly reminder the world has not ended.

For it hasn’t.

Classes continue as if

nothing has happened and no one could

bother to notice if something had.

This room is safe.

Untouched by anyone uninvited,

it is the one place left to curl up and cry.

Dying could be an option

as well, considering how bleak everything looks

from the bed.

No one seemed particularly shocked

when it happened, when he gave up

with a curse and all capital letters.

His temper had been bound to flare,

but maybe that had been the goal all along?

Thousands of miles had been filled

with yelling, fighting, a green-eyed monster

over something that never happened,

and probably never would have.

And when the distance was reduced,

silence unforgivingly invaded and any

love felt, lost.

Turn the pillow to the

cooler side, for surely it has dried

by now. Let it soak up the tears that make this bed.

I have made it,

and until some saving grace determines otherwise,

here I shall lie, alone.

Gravity and Yoga

Breathe in

Positivity, light, wholesomeness, love

Breathe out

Stress, anger, thoughtlessness, mistakes

Focus on your breathing

Floating…

Racing thoughts cease

Breathe actively

Weightlessness surrounds me

Feel your breath—

White nothingness abounds

—fill the back of your lungs

A pure silence before unknown

Engage your diaphragm

Discomfort, falling and strain

Ignore the intruder

Follow the path—

Internal serenity found despite an incessant voice

—your breath takes—

Floating easily, yet struggling

—through your body

Tethered down, unable to be free

/…/

Silence

Finally able to enjoy floating, unrestrained

Reality rushes back, noise

I miss the voice

Memory of a Little One

“Teagen!” she cries, her frightened voice

drifting down the hall and through the two

doors separating us.

Her call jolts me awake

from my attempt at a nap beside my

love’s warm body—soft, sculpted, secure,

though he has yet to see that

in himself.

Her room is a tumble of stuffed

toys, blankets, and dress up clothes.

At the white and pink bed, she

half sits, half stands, rubbing her

eyes, blonde hair tousled.

“What is it, baby?” Kneeling before

her pink clothed form, frail and small,

the only word she seems to know is no.

Wrapped gently in my arms, her head

lolls on my shoulder. She is a stubborn

one, determined her naptime is over

and her father, my love, will not do; in my lap,

she sits and makes a bed of my belly and bosom

where she alternates between quiet contentedness

and a restless search for awakeness.

The soothing swaying of the armchair is spoiled by

incessant squeaking, so I settle for holding her

and renew the search for my own sleep.

Moments later, she slips from my lap

in a whirlwind of energy, and begs, jumping—

her white blonde curls flying up—for the movie with cat bus.

800 Some Miles

A screen is the gateway across 800 some miles.

In an instant the distance is lost.

Separate time zones collide,

Though my solitary surroundings never change.

A tiny camera,

The circumference of a pencil,

Becomes a window into a world

Of a child laughing, oversimplified songs

Accompanied by overacting,

And you, overflowing with affection.

And though voices and images

Can travel the distance,

We oft opt for a keyboard and screen.

Your voice becomes the tapping of keys.

Your face preserved in snapshots

To be drunk and memorized.

Your words, which can be measured,

Perfected in the time before clicking

The beveled send button,

Remain raw and very much you.

And across 800 some miles,

Through a screen, keyboard, device,

Your life and love melds with mine,

Encased in an embrace

Of meant to be,

Engaged to be,

It is.

A Daughter and a Man

For years, I knew I had been missing

something, though I had learned only the fear

of being forgotten or taken by the cruel touch

of a man who wanted nothing but tears.

And though a part of me continued longing

for love, security, I remained just someone’s daughter.

Then I met a man with a young daughter,

not yet two years old, her mother missing

from her life. A woman who left his heart longing

for someone faithful who wouldn’t give him reason to fear

he gave his love in vain. Someone who wouldn’t leave tears

in her wake, destroying everything she might touch.

Meeting by a virtual waterfall, how could we touch

each other so profoundly? How could his lovely daughter

not be terrifying, but impelling? There were days when tears

danced down my cheeks as we learned each other. Missing

him was rare as we filled each day with conversation and the fear

it wouldn’t work, despite our love, and we’d be left longing

for the other, settling for another, someone closer. Longing

for a person miles away whom we could not touch

and could only dream of meeting. But fear

festered in my mind. I couldn’t be there for his daughter

and be the mother she needed. Not when I would be missing

her first time reading by herself, the tears

from a scuffed knee at daycare, or days indoors when tears

fell from the sky before she’s too old to know more than longing

to play outside. I would be no better than her mother, missing

her life. He was comforting, emoting tender touch

I imagined I could feel. We would wait and see, but his daughter

would love me when we met, I should have no fear.

He has a way of washing away every trace of fear

and making it seem silly. His voice soothes away tears

caused by feelings of inadequacy. His daughter

is fortunate to have a father who will not leave her longing

for a mother, whose love is evident in his tone and touch.

He’s filled my soul where something had been missing.

There is no fear in meeting my love’s touch,

only in missing him when I depart. But I have been longing

to meet him and his daughter, and hope my leaving sees few tears.

Tarot

Cradle the deck in your hands,

Gently like a newborn child,

And press cool finished paper to your

            Lips

            Forehead

            Heart

Wherever you feel the energy pulse inside you.

Let the cards be drawn to you,

Your energy soaking them in light,

Filling them with your essence as you

            Breathe

            Focus

            Pray

And prepare them to connect you with yourself.

There is a reason to call upon the deck,

Whether for guidance or curiosity,

And each time connects your soul to the

            Goddess

            God

            Cosmos

So comfort and understanding accompany the news.

What news is to be received depends on you

And the enlightenment you seek

As you toss around in your mind a single

            Thought

            Question

            Concern

To be given up in sacrifice for blunt advice.

And yet the answers given can only be deciphered

From their cryptic, generalized state

By the reader who is willing to

            Accept

            Interpret

            Understand

The clarity provided by the cards.

For the reader knows answers already lie waiting inside.

Four Nights in Paris, Part 6

Mother was aflutter when I called asking for her advice. Despite her excitement, she warned me to be careful and not to keep my expectations too high. I shrugged it off, convincing myself she was just being a mother and worrying after me.

The day passed so slowly and I was nearly unable to conceal my irritation. I constantly checked my phone and my watch, hoping the time would have flown by in some great leap since last I looked. Instead, the seconds crept by, hardly seeming to move. By the time it was six, I could hardly contain myself. I was sure Lani would be on time, gleefully hoping she had been as excited and anxious. Maybe she had been unable to enjoy the museums due to her excitement, bouncing from one to the next in an elated fervor.

At two until six, I arrived at the bar, taking a seat on one of the stools and ordering water. The petite bartender was back tonight, and she was joined by a tall blonde; the taller one took a note from by the cash register and made her way towards me. “Vous vous appelez Matt?” she asked.

“Oui,” I replied, confused.

“Connaissez-vous une femme…euh, Lani?” she asked, glancing at the folded paper in her hands.

“Oui.”

“Cette note est pour vous.” She laid the paper before me and left.

I regarded the note warily, suspicious of what it could say. The worst raced through my mind: hospitalization, death, sudden departure, injury. My heart was pounding loudly in my chest and my hand began to shake as I unfolded the note.

Dearest Matt,

I apologize for my absence. I will not be able to make it to dinner with you tonight. I know I said I would, but I can’t. You think I deserve something better but I really don’t. And even if I did, I don’t deserve you. I picked you because you were young and handsome. But I didn’t expect you to be so sweet and vulnerable.

I’m no good for you. I don’t deserve the kindness or the honesty you’ve shown me. You’re the first man to buy me a gift or a drink and not expect sex to follow. And you’re the first man to ever tell me he respected me and wanted to treat me right. For that, thank you.

But you deserve better than me. I told you, I’m used to short things. It’s easier that way, less messy. I can’t give you what you want. That is why I can’t come to dinner. If I had come, you’d be wasting time with me, when, in a few months, if not a few weeks, I know you’d be bored and see me for what I really am.

The woman you’re looking for is out there somewhere and she will give you all the love you deserve. I’m sorry I can’t be her.

Lani

P.S. Don’t think on sad things, Matt. This is Paris after all.

I stared at the note for a long while, reading and re-reading the words she had written. It was a ruse; it had to be. But as the clock struck seven, I began to accept it wasn’t. I ordered a whiskey and downed it immediately. Then I ordered for a refill. Screw my one drink limit. So what if I’d kept it for nearly four years now. I should have listened to my mother and controlled my wishful thinking. Even before that, I should have trusted myself and not entertained her flirting.

And yet, when I closed my eyes, I could feel her lips on mine, or her hand gently squeezing my own, and I knew those had been real. Those had been sincere.

I read the last paragraph over and over again. I eventually wandered to the front desk, hoping to locate Lani so I could maybe talk sense into her. After all, I wanted to know who had told her she wasn’t good enough. Who had said she couldn’t be the one to love me?

After providing some monetary incentive, the desk assistant told me no one named Lani had stayed at the hotel in the last week. She repeated this multiple times before I finally conceded and left for my room. There I paced along the foot of the bed, poring over her letter and muttering theories to myself. I wanted to explain away the pain. How was it possible to feel so hurt over someone I barely knew? How had I been so blind to the signs warning me to run the other way? Most importantly, I wanted to know why she had left. If she had stayed, who knew what could have happened. For all we knew, she very well might have been the one.

But that’s one thing I would never have the satisfaction of knowing.

Four Nights in Paris, Part 5

The little tan box sat on the low table before me beside two empty glasses and a bottle of wine. I’d woken up feeling elated. Lani had visited my dreams; we were lying in bed, cuddling and talking. Every now and then she would giggle in her bird-like way. The sound of her voice would coax me to laugh with her.

My associate even noted my lighter mood, making it seem peculiar—though I was certain it wasn’t. The real estate agent seemed heartened as well, though it was difficult to determine if that was because of me or some other factor. He entertained my wanting to stop at a shop on our trek to the second site. I felt the compulsion to make a purchase.

Lani entered—in what appeared to be the same black dress that hugged her every curve—about half an hour after she had shown up the past couple nights; I had started to worry she wasn’t coming. For a moment she searched, almost as though uncertain and perhaps a bit insecure. She folded an arm across her stomach and latched the hand to her other arm, craning her neck as she glanced around the space.

I stood, smiling and gesturing for her to join me. She smiled and dropped her arm, joining me.

“Do you like wine?” I asked, picking up the bottle.

She smiled kindly; “I haven’t had it very often, but I like it well enough.”

Handing her a glass, I smiled at her. That feeling of elation I awoke with was returning and warming my body. Lani had worn through my defenses and I wanted to know her better.

“This is for you,” I said, offering her the box. My heart was racing and I hoped she liked it.

“What is it?” she asked, setting her drink on the table and taking the box in her hands. She examined it as if expecting some sort of trick.

“Open it.”

Slowly, she cracked open the lid. Her eyes darted up at me before returning to the box. “It’s beautiful,” Lani breathed.

I couldn’t stop the smile spreading across my face as she gingerly lifted the silver necklace from the box. The charm was a double heart, one of which was encrusted in emeralds; ‘Paris’ was inscribed on the back. “I saw it and thought you might like it.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she said unconvincingly, her eyes fixed on the charm.

“I thought you should have something nice to remember Paris by.”

She laid the necklace back in the box and found my eyes. “Thank you. No one’s ever bought me something that nice before.”

I was thrilled by the compliment; she kept glancing between me and the box as if expecting one or both of us to disappear in a cloud of smoke.

“Why?”

“What do you mean?” She confused me and I doubted for a moment that I’d done the right thing. I knew gifts were a tricky thing with some feeling obligated to return the favor. But I had hoped she wouldn’t be that sort of person.

“Why did you give me this?”

I swallowed hard, debating how honest I should be with her. Then the memory of Danielle’s lack of honesty surfaced. “I like you, Lani. I—I don’t know why, but I like you and I want to get to know you better.”

She nodded, “I like you, too, Matt. You’re a sweet guy.” She giggled a little, adding, “I knew you weren’t the stuffy type.” Lani drank half her wine and crossed the distance between us to kiss my cheek.

My cheeks burned hot and I couldn’t help smiling. Then her hand turned my face up towards hers and she softly kissed my lips.  Again our lips met briefly, and yet the act was charged with so much energy. In a moment she was sitting across my lap, wrapped in my arms, as she pulled my face towards her. Her lips were soft and her hot breath seemed to come progressively faster.

I pulled away from her, suddenly struck by how inappropriate a setting the bar was for this, but also starkly reminded of the days when I used to believe making out meant nothing at all. But it did mean something and I didn’t want to cheapen her kisses by indulging until it led to where feelings really could be hurt quickly.

“Is something wrong?” she asked worriedly, her breathing gradually returning to normal. “Didn’t you like it?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I liked it,” I said, brushing her hair over her shoulder.

“Then what was wrong?”

“I just—” How could I explain to her what was going on in my mind? How did one explain having hurt numerous girls over short-lived flings and not valuing them enough? “I respect you and like you too much.”

“Aren’t you supposed to want to kiss people you like?” she asked, her eyes searching my face, her brow furrowed and lips parted.

“Yes, you are. But…I don’t know how to explain this.” My eyes scanned the room, hoping the words would come to my rescue. “I don’t want you to think I’m just using you because you’re beautiful. I want you to feel special and cared for, and I can’t do that until I get to know you better.”

Lani’s face softened again and a bemused smile curled her lips. “Matt, neither of us is going to be here forever.” Her fingers ran through my hair.

“We can find ways around that. I mean, there are cell phones and laptops and all sorts of technology anymore. We can spend what time we have together here and then figure the rest out from there,” I reasoned, hoping I wasn’t sounding too cheesy or, worse, desperate.

“So explore my body and get to know that part of me,” she said, gazing up at me from under her eyelashes. Lani started to pull my face towards hers again before I removed her hand from the back of my head and gently sat it in her lap.

“Lani, I want to get to know you before that,” I said slowly. “I want to earn your trust first. I want you to feel safe and like you matter.”

“I’m used to short things, Matt,” she said, diverting her gaze. “It would be just like everyone else. We could pretend if that made you feel better.”

I shook my head. “Lani, you deserve better than that.” When she didn’t say anything, I decided I might as well go for it. “Lani, would do me the honor of joining me for dinner tomorrow night?”

She didn’t say anything for a long while. Then she looked up at me and asked, “What time?”

“Six P.M. sound all right? We could meet here if you wanted.”

She nodded, slowly standing up. “Sure, Matt. That sounds really nice.”

“Great;” I couldn’t stop smiling. I would have to call Mother for suggestions as to where to take her. It would need to be nice but I didn’t want it to be ritzy; somewhere down-to-earth with excellent Parisian cuisine. “I’ll see you tomorrow at six, then,” I said, kissing her hand.

Lani smiled at me, though it was more sad than happy. “Sweet dreams,” she said, sitting in her seat and picking up her glass of wine again.

Four Nights in Paris, Part 4

Lani gently squeezed my knee. “I get it, you have to work. But you really should take a day to enjoy yourself. At least half a day.”

“We’ll see.” I watched as she removed her hand, feeling a bit lonely from the lack of touch and wanting to ask for it back. It had been some time since I’d welcomed the touch of a woman. After Danielle, the thought of being touched repulsed me. It had for several years. But I’d been told that’s common when you have an STI scare. I wasn’t sure if it was stranger to welcome the touch of a woman again or to welcome the company of this girl so much like my ex. “Why did you come back tonight?”

Lani cocked her head to the side, her eyes searching my face as if suspecting it was a trick question of some sort. “I said I would, didn’t I? Why is that so surprising to you?”

I scratched the back of my head, grimacing. “It’s just…you remind me of a girl I used to know.”

“What was she like?” Lani rested her chin on her hand.

My eyes focused on a point behind the bar though my mind drifted away to those three years of college. Danielle with her strawberry blond hair and freckled, pale skin; she laughed at something funny, a musical quality to her voice. Even when she spoke it sounded like she was singing. During the good times anyway. The harmonies sounded more dissonant after the truth had been revealed.

“She was unique. Pretty, liked to laugh, didn’t take a whole lot seriously it didn’t seem.” I sighed, images of her face contorted in anger flooding my mind. She hadn’t liked when I’d demanded why she hadn’t told me; she seemed to think that was a no brainer and reminded me she had never promised to be monogamous.

“What changed?” Lani asked, her voice sounding distant.

Images of Danielle happy and playful came back; she was running down a hill with her arms flailing or spinning in wide circles down a sidewalk, looking back to smile at me. “She liked being a free spirit, and she felt being with one person was too restricting.”

I shook the images from my mind, turning towards Lani. She wrapped her hand around mine and squeezed. A sad smile crossed my lips and I gently squeezed her hand in return. Her mouth opened as though she was going to say something and then thought better of it.

“Cheer up, Matt. She didn’t know what she was letting go.” She smiled kindly at me and I swore I saw something lonely in her as well; as though she could relate. Before I could ask, she said, “Let’s not think on sad things. We’re in Paris after all.”

My lips cracked into a smile. She was right. All of that was so far away, in both time and place; it did no good to think on it now. And there before me was this beautiful woman, so caring and sympathetic. I felt I had been unfair to her, and yet she wanted to know about me; if she had only been interested in sex and booze, I couldn’t help thinking she wouldn’t have asked about the girl she made me remember.

Suddenly I was struck by how late it must have been. Checking my watch, I said, “I’m really sorry, Lani, but I need to go for the night.”

She nodded, a hint of disappointment in her eyes, but a smile curling her lips. “I thought you might say that.” Lani squeezed my hand again before letting it go.

“Will I see you tomorrow night?”

Her smile brightened; “I don’t see why not.”

I stood and wished her a good night. As I started to leave, I felt her shapely arms wrap around me and her face press into the space between my shoulder blades. Part of me wanted to turn around and give her a proper hug, but I feared already I was growing too smitten; not properly returning the hug was my way of proving I wasn’t too attached yet. I placed my arms over hers and whispered, “Thank you.”

Lani pulled away slowly, gently rubbing my back for a moment. “Sweet dreams.”

Four Nights in Paris, Part 3

It had been a long day touring another three locations and writing up notes on each property. My associate had, at one point, managed to insult our agent and it took me quite some time to sort that out. Afterwards, I had ask he stop trying to speak French before they imprisoned or deported us. He meant well, but he didn’t always pick up on subtle hints. A hyperbole or two usually could make him understand.

I was enjoying my nightly drink—tonight’s poison of choice: bourbon—in the hotel bar again. The woman from the previous night must have been enjoying time off as a slender male took my order. He didn’t say much and seemed to prefer to keep busy rather than deal with other people. I guessed it was either his first job or one that wasn’t going to last long.

“You shouldn’t stare; you’ll make him self-conscious,” Lani said, sliding onto the bar stool next to mine. She was as radiant as the previous night, but seemed to be wearing the same dress, if I wasn’t mistaken. Lani reached out and tousled my blondish brown tresses, smiling like a small child with a new toy. “You have really soft hair.”

When she retracted her hand, I automatically moved to finger-comb my hair back into some semblance of neatness. It wasn’t often people touched my hair, but it bothered me to look the least bit bedraggled in public.

“It looked cute mussed up;” Lani pouted.

“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”

She smiled brightly; “Oh, you know you’re happy to see me.”

“I am…surprised to see you,” I said carefully, taking another swallow of bourbon.

“A good surprise I hope.”

I turned to her and my lips turned up slightly. “Yes, a good surprise.”

“Buy me another drink?” She crossed her legs and cocked her head to the side, her eyes glinting in the dim light.

I supposed I had expected this to some extent as she had shown up again. At least she was more direct about the fact I was paying and not just ordering. Somehow that made it more acceptable. “What’s your poison?”

“Surprise me.”

I ordered her a margarita with a double shot of tequila; she seemed like she could handle it and I was determined to only buy her the one, even if the night was still young.

“Merci beaucoup,” she said to the bartender, flashing him a smile before turning back to me and taking a sip. “You’re not trying to get me drunk are you?” Lani cocked an eyebrow at me.

I chortled; “If I wanted to get you drunk, I would have ordered you shots.”

Her lips curled and she took another sip. “So why was seeing me a surprise?”

Her directness made me feel a little embarrassed. Although I had learned to read women fairly well in college, I didn’t know her, and it seemed wrong for me to have judged her. “I don’t know. It kind of seemed you were only interested in drinks and getting to the bedroom.”

She feigned insult, her free hand flying to her chest and her mouth agape. It might have been genuine, but she struck me as the kind who would slap a man and storm off for being truly insulted. “I have some self-respect, thank you.”

“I apologize for questioning your integrity,” I stated obligatorily.

“I mean, I never even mentioned a bedroom.”

It was true she hadn’t, but fun at night was very limited. Lani might have meant clubbing or some activity like that. Mentally, I berated myself for jumping to conclusions about her, but then I berated myself for allowing her to make me doubt my instincts. “How was your day?”

She frowned briefly at the subject change, then seemed to decide she was ok with it and said, “I spent the day at the Louvre. I still haven’t seen half the place yet, so I think I’ll return tomorrow again You’re welcome to join me if you’d like. I’ll warn you now—” she said, sitting up straighter and her face becoming serious, “—I don’t take well to people talking to me while I enjoy artwork.”

“I understand; I’m the same way with movies.” I leaned against the counter, resting on my elbow. “But I work tomorrow, so I will sadly need to decline your invitation.”

Lani pouted again. “I suppose I can understand that. I don’t see why you can’t take a day off to enjoy yourself. I mean, how often do you find yourself in Paris?”

Often enough, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I shrugged and apologized.

“It’s fine, I guess.” She turned to her drink and took a long draw. “How was your day?”

“Long, but I’m glad it’s almost over.”

“But the night is so young,” she said, her eyes wide and seeming to ask if I was serious.

“Yes, but I do have responsibilities. I can’t be all fun and games.”

“I’m sure even your father made time for some fun,” she teased, smirking.

I downed the last of my bourbon and looked at her. She confused me. For someone who seemed so simple, she had come for a second night. She was lively and flirty and perhaps a bit too charming, and yet she seemed sincere. I wanted to believe she wasn’t just looking for one fun night.