Remember when I got a sudden urge to put some of my best writing on a blog? And how a few weeks later my hard drive crashed and burned, taking with it almost everything I've written since freshman year of college? And how happy I was that at least I salvaged some of it, and how even through the tears I saw it as a good thing because most of it was probably crap and it was more like a cleansing so I can start over, but how I still wish that one day I will hit the power button and my computer will magically turn on, even though I've already removed the hard drive and trashed the rest of the parts.
Good times.
7.9.09
29.6.09
Perpetual Youth
When people ask me where I’m from or where I grew up, there is always a pause before I answer. “Growing up” is a very ambiguous concept and it is hard to define at what point of one’s life was when they grew up. The pause is also to consider my audience and how they will react to the answer I end up choosing. I know that if I say “Long Island” I will get the same response: a prejudged eye roll and the end of questioning. Recently, however, I’ve thought a lot about what it means to pin point the act of growing up, and what it means to say “I’m from” wherever.
This mini identity crisis can probably be accredited to the fact that I’ve lived in seven different houses and have attended four different school districts since I was born. I was born in Newark, Delaware, and lived there for the first year of my life before moving to Salisbury, Maryland. After first grade, my family relocated again to Elkton, Maryland, which is a few hours from Salisbury. Half way through third grade, we moved again to the next school district over, North East. Finally, the summer before sixth grade, right after I got my tonsils removed, we moved up the east coast to Long Island where I finished out my grade school career. All the moves had something to do with my father’s job; promotions or transfers, all things I was too young to care about or even understand at the time.
Through my first three years of college, I instinctively told people that I met that I was from Long Island. After all, when I went home for Christmas break, it was to Long Island, and I had spent seven years there, which was the longest of any of my childhood homes. Going to college in upstate New York, I started noticing that there was a typical reaction to someone who is from Long Island. There is a definite negative connotation and people automatically become half as interested as they were before they heard the words “Long Island.” Frustrated at the prejudgment applied to me, I made the concrete decision that I am not actually from Long Island. Most Long Islanders are born and raised there, following many prior generations. Me? I’m from south of the Mason Dixon line.
Since I’ve started telling people that I’m from Maryland and Delaware, I have actually been thinking about what it means to say that. I want where I say I grew up to be where I was molded and shaped as a human being. Since the Long Island stereotypes don’t apply to me, I’ve counted it out definitely.
Having a lot to do with my father’s involvement in the Boy Scouts, one of the houses we lived in was a year round residence at a Boy Scout summer camp, Camp Rodney, in North East. A few miles past the entrance of the camp, down a long, red dirt road was the small three-bedroom cabin in the middle of the woods that I lived with my parents, two sisters, and brother. In an otherwise relatively suburban part of Maryland, we were isolated by acres and acres of trees and hills and a piece of property situated on a large stretch of beach along the Chesapeake Bay.
Our nearest neighbor was never even close enough to measure how far away they were, so we were on our own. For two years, my older brother, Eric, older sister, Karen, younger sister, Emily, two Labradors, Hero and Bear, and I explored Camp Rodney from acre to acre together. When I think back on it, having the hundreds of acres of forest with trails beaten down by years and years of Boy Scouts was such an amazing opportunity for us as kids. Having this experience in my life probably has something to do with the fact that I never owned or desired any game system more advanced than a GameBoy.
The part of the forest where my siblings and I spent most of our time was actually right near the house. We were within earshot of the house so it pretty much developed into home base. In this area, Eric and I made a fort for ourselves around the natural formations of the birch trees, using logs and broken branches to highlight our domain. To officially make the fort ours, we carved our initials into a tree with Eric’s pocketknife at the entrance. In response, Karen and Emily made their own password-protected fort nearby. The sibling and boys vs. girls rivalry never resulted in much past the inevitable denial of each other’s company in our respective forts, so we took to exploring elsewhere. We never figured out each other’s passwords.
Just past our fort area, a little deeper into the forest, there was a series of deep ravines. As if the forest was built for the sole purpose of our entertainment, there were thick vines hanging down from the canopied ceiling in the perfect spot to swing across to the other side of the ravine. For Emily, who was too little to swing across the ravine, there was a large fallen tree for her to balance herself on as she walked across the gap. As we made our way deeper into the forest, past The Forts and past The Ravines, there was a swampy area. The Swamp was a landmark that meant we were close to the Bay. It was a great place for a game of Tag or Follow the Leader because of the level of skill and concentration it took to leap across the muck from rock to log to rock and back again without losing a shoe to the Swamp Monster.
Emerging from the depths of The Swamp was a sandy path leading to the bay. The beach at the Chesapeake Bay was a playground in itself. Eric, Karen, Emily, and I would often race from the house to the sandy shore and spend an afternoon swimming in the chilly water or wading in the shallow parts with small nets trying to catch minnows. Down the beach a little ways were cliffs that were made of red clay. In addition to climbing the cliffs, we would harvest chunks of the clay and use it to make sculptures and trinkets, some of which are still on display at Grandma’s house. As the sun began to retreat over the Bay, we took a quick dip to wash the crimson color from our hands and feet that had been submerged in clay before racing back down The Beach, through The Swamp, over The Ravine, past The Forts, emerging from the tree line and sprinting the last hundred yards to the back door of the house.
It was in that house, where I shared a room with my brother, where we lost power during a winter storm on my birthday, where a six-person family shared one bathroom, that I developed an identity and an appreciation for family. Secluded in a piece of paradise, I was able to unleash my imagination and sense of exploration with my sibling companions where there were no boundaries. So where am I from? I’m from where I learned how to play outside and where I learned to love my brother and sisters. Where I can always go back in my mind and relive the glory days of my childhood, visualizing walking down the once beaten path, touching the initials “EF” and “JF” on the trunk of the birch tree at The Forts, tugging the old vines that will no longer carry me over The Ravines, walking the safe path through The Swamp, and sit in the coarse sand and watch the choppy water of the Chesapeake.
This mini identity crisis can probably be accredited to the fact that I’ve lived in seven different houses and have attended four different school districts since I was born. I was born in Newark, Delaware, and lived there for the first year of my life before moving to Salisbury, Maryland. After first grade, my family relocated again to Elkton, Maryland, which is a few hours from Salisbury. Half way through third grade, we moved again to the next school district over, North East. Finally, the summer before sixth grade, right after I got my tonsils removed, we moved up the east coast to Long Island where I finished out my grade school career. All the moves had something to do with my father’s job; promotions or transfers, all things I was too young to care about or even understand at the time.
Through my first three years of college, I instinctively told people that I met that I was from Long Island. After all, when I went home for Christmas break, it was to Long Island, and I had spent seven years there, which was the longest of any of my childhood homes. Going to college in upstate New York, I started noticing that there was a typical reaction to someone who is from Long Island. There is a definite negative connotation and people automatically become half as interested as they were before they heard the words “Long Island.” Frustrated at the prejudgment applied to me, I made the concrete decision that I am not actually from Long Island. Most Long Islanders are born and raised there, following many prior generations. Me? I’m from south of the Mason Dixon line.
Since I’ve started telling people that I’m from Maryland and Delaware, I have actually been thinking about what it means to say that. I want where I say I grew up to be where I was molded and shaped as a human being. Since the Long Island stereotypes don’t apply to me, I’ve counted it out definitely.
Having a lot to do with my father’s involvement in the Boy Scouts, one of the houses we lived in was a year round residence at a Boy Scout summer camp, Camp Rodney, in North East. A few miles past the entrance of the camp, down a long, red dirt road was the small three-bedroom cabin in the middle of the woods that I lived with my parents, two sisters, and brother. In an otherwise relatively suburban part of Maryland, we were isolated by acres and acres of trees and hills and a piece of property situated on a large stretch of beach along the Chesapeake Bay.
Our nearest neighbor was never even close enough to measure how far away they were, so we were on our own. For two years, my older brother, Eric, older sister, Karen, younger sister, Emily, two Labradors, Hero and Bear, and I explored Camp Rodney from acre to acre together. When I think back on it, having the hundreds of acres of forest with trails beaten down by years and years of Boy Scouts was such an amazing opportunity for us as kids. Having this experience in my life probably has something to do with the fact that I never owned or desired any game system more advanced than a GameBoy.
The part of the forest where my siblings and I spent most of our time was actually right near the house. We were within earshot of the house so it pretty much developed into home base. In this area, Eric and I made a fort for ourselves around the natural formations of the birch trees, using logs and broken branches to highlight our domain. To officially make the fort ours, we carved our initials into a tree with Eric’s pocketknife at the entrance. In response, Karen and Emily made their own password-protected fort nearby. The sibling and boys vs. girls rivalry never resulted in much past the inevitable denial of each other’s company in our respective forts, so we took to exploring elsewhere. We never figured out each other’s passwords.
Just past our fort area, a little deeper into the forest, there was a series of deep ravines. As if the forest was built for the sole purpose of our entertainment, there were thick vines hanging down from the canopied ceiling in the perfect spot to swing across to the other side of the ravine. For Emily, who was too little to swing across the ravine, there was a large fallen tree for her to balance herself on as she walked across the gap. As we made our way deeper into the forest, past The Forts and past The Ravines, there was a swampy area. The Swamp was a landmark that meant we were close to the Bay. It was a great place for a game of Tag or Follow the Leader because of the level of skill and concentration it took to leap across the muck from rock to log to rock and back again without losing a shoe to the Swamp Monster.
Emerging from the depths of The Swamp was a sandy path leading to the bay. The beach at the Chesapeake Bay was a playground in itself. Eric, Karen, Emily, and I would often race from the house to the sandy shore and spend an afternoon swimming in the chilly water or wading in the shallow parts with small nets trying to catch minnows. Down the beach a little ways were cliffs that were made of red clay. In addition to climbing the cliffs, we would harvest chunks of the clay and use it to make sculptures and trinkets, some of which are still on display at Grandma’s house. As the sun began to retreat over the Bay, we took a quick dip to wash the crimson color from our hands and feet that had been submerged in clay before racing back down The Beach, through The Swamp, over The Ravine, past The Forts, emerging from the tree line and sprinting the last hundred yards to the back door of the house.
It was in that house, where I shared a room with my brother, where we lost power during a winter storm on my birthday, where a six-person family shared one bathroom, that I developed an identity and an appreciation for family. Secluded in a piece of paradise, I was able to unleash my imagination and sense of exploration with my sibling companions where there were no boundaries. So where am I from? I’m from where I learned how to play outside and where I learned to love my brother and sisters. Where I can always go back in my mind and relive the glory days of my childhood, visualizing walking down the once beaten path, touching the initials “EF” and “JF” on the trunk of the birch tree at The Forts, tugging the old vines that will no longer carry me over The Ravines, walking the safe path through The Swamp, and sit in the coarse sand and watch the choppy water of the Chesapeake.
8.6.09
Chocolate Dream
by John Fleckenstein
A swirling galaxy of blended flavor
..........................orchestrated by a
..................................silver spoon.
A mix of particles in a single glass
From white to black
Is my chocolate dream.
A swirling galaxy of blended flavor
..........................orchestrated by a
..................................silver spoon.
A mix of particles in a single glass
From white to black
Is my chocolate dream.
Some Haikus
by John Fleckenstein
Iced Coffee
A snowy morning,
Ice frozen over my car.
Perfect for donuts.
Since 1986
Another birthday.
The first one with no candles;
Just April Showers.
Iced Coffee
A snowy morning,
Ice frozen over my car.
Perfect for donuts.
Since 1986
Another birthday.
The first one with no candles;
Just April Showers.
A Work in Progress
by John Fleckenstein
The top layer of sand was still warm from the day’s beating sun. As Jason walked, his bare feet dug into it, feeling the cooler layers below the surface.
The sun had set about an hour before, but there was still a lingering luminosity to the western sky. To the east the sky was black with a thousand tiny stars piercing the darkness. A few wisps of clouds spread themselves out over the cosmic landscape, careful not to impede on the view of the moon.
Jason stared up at the moon as he trudged through the soft sand. It had been about a month since his last visit to Pirate’s Cove; the last full moon. The calm water reflected the moon as it gently pushed and pulled sand and small pebbles on the shoreline.
After a short walk, Jason got to the point, a tiny peninsula, where the Cove meets Port Jefferson Harbor. With the sound of lapping water on both sides of him, he sat and gazed out across the water. There was no real distinction between the water in the Cove and in the Harbor; just a seamless connection of tiny ripples surrounding Jason on his sandy peninsula. Across the harbor the chop heightened slightly as water poured through the inlet from the Long Island Sound. The north shore of Long Island hardly ever saw anything more than “a little choppy,” especially not at night.
By now the sun had vanished completely, leaving only the thin layer of warm sand as evidence of the once hot day, but even the sand was cooling as fast as the sun had set. The full moon, now with complete sovereignty in the night sky, had an ambient glow over Jason and the beach beneath him.
The top layer of sand was still warm from the day’s beating sun. As Jason walked, his bare feet dug into it, feeling the cooler layers below the surface.
The sun had set about an hour before, but there was still a lingering luminosity to the western sky. To the east the sky was black with a thousand tiny stars piercing the darkness. A few wisps of clouds spread themselves out over the cosmic landscape, careful not to impede on the view of the moon.
Jason stared up at the moon as he trudged through the soft sand. It had been about a month since his last visit to Pirate’s Cove; the last full moon. The calm water reflected the moon as it gently pushed and pulled sand and small pebbles on the shoreline.
After a short walk, Jason got to the point, a tiny peninsula, where the Cove meets Port Jefferson Harbor. With the sound of lapping water on both sides of him, he sat and gazed out across the water. There was no real distinction between the water in the Cove and in the Harbor; just a seamless connection of tiny ripples surrounding Jason on his sandy peninsula. Across the harbor the chop heightened slightly as water poured through the inlet from the Long Island Sound. The north shore of Long Island hardly ever saw anything more than “a little choppy,” especially not at night.
By now the sun had vanished completely, leaving only the thin layer of warm sand as evidence of the once hot day, but even the sand was cooling as fast as the sun had set. The full moon, now with complete sovereignty in the night sky, had an ambient glow over Jason and the beach beneath him.
31.5.09
Ars Poetica
by John Fleckenstein
A force field that protects me from the world,
A channel that turns sparks into fire.
My fingertips break barriers
And run though an open field,
Stamping footprints across the plane.
They grow as they escape the capital confines
Into a world of proverbial scenery.
A vast field of thoughts
and ideas between my toes.
Underneath my feet,
the virgin meadow is now imprinted
With my soul.
A force field that protects me from the world,
A channel that turns sparks into fire.
My fingertips break barriers
And run though an open field,
Stamping footprints across the plane.
They grow as they escape the capital confines
Into a world of proverbial scenery.
A vast field of thoughts
and ideas between my toes.
Underneath my feet,
the virgin meadow is now imprinted
With my soul.
To Sasha
by John Fleckenstein
I lied there in the dark. Everything was quiet except for a faint ringing that seemed to be coming from all around me. I was warm and I felt sedated. I didn’t know if I could move from where I was, but I didn’t want to anyway. I didn’t even know where I was, but I didn’t care at the moment. I blinked for what seemed like an eternity. My eyes finally re-opened and it was still very dark. The ringing was getting louder now, and slightly more distinct. It had turned into a crackle more than a ringing, and it was making me curious. I wanted to find the noise.
I shut my eyes so that I could try harder to concentrate on the noise. I don’t think it got any darker when my eyelids met, but I could hear more. There was a new noise accompanying the high-pitched ring. I closed my eyes tighter and I heard it. It sounded a little like boiling water. It was definitely water. Maybe something was leaking. I got tired from squeezing my eyes closed so I relaxed. It actually was a little brighter with them open, but I still couldn’t see much. I wondered where I was.
We always walked home together to our houses across the street from each other on Ridge Road, everyday since fifth grade when our mothers allowed us to walk home from school. It was now eighth grade and Sasha and I were still best friends. I always thought Sasha was beautiful, but never as anything more than a friend. She had the most gorgeous eyes I had ever seen on a girl. They were green and brown and very natural looking. Her brown hair was always perfect and always provided the perfect frame for the rest of her face. She had big lips that always seemed to curl into a caring smile all the time.
We were walking home one particular day when it started to rain. We decided to stop and talk in the dugouts at the baseball field until the rainstorm passed. We could always talk for hours, about the guys and girls in our grade, our teachers, and most of the time just life in general. On this day, we were talking about the boyfriends and girlfriends in our classes and who liked who, and who did what. It became apparent that kissing was the new phase for kids our age. I was fresh out of the “cooties” stage, so I had no experience in the subject. Sasha had no experience either, and for some reason, even though we were best friends, I always got the feeling like she wanted to kiss me.
We got to talking about it and what it must feel like and what you have to do. I felt comfortable talking with Sasha about it because we had been friends forever. I was looking up, raising one eyebrow trying to image a kiss when I saw Sasha slide herself closer to me on the dugout bench. I felt my face turn brick red and my stomach knotted itself when she suggested that we try kissing. She put one of her hands in my sweaty palm and pulled me close to her. We closed our eyes right before my dry mouth met her strawberry lips.
I tried really hard to concentrate on the sound. It was beginning to sound like a broken violin and somebody crumpling a brown paper lunch bag. It was becoming an effort to keep my eyelids apart. There was a blurry light all around me that seemed to be gradually getting brighter. I couldn’t find a specific point to focus on. The louder the noise got and the brighter the light got, I became more aware. I felt like I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, and I desperately wanted to leave. I started to feel the rest of my body, and all it felt like was pins and needles. I wanted to know why I couldn’t move.
Suddenly a drop of water hit my face. I must have just regained feeling in my face, because the drops started coming at a regular rate. Almost effortlessly I connected the sound of water to the drops on my face; it must be raining. The moment I associated the two, the sound of rain became so clear that I don’t know how I confused it. One of the raindrops dripped into the crevice between my lips. I could feel my lips, and using all the energy I could, I pried them open and put my tongue between them momentarily, tasting the rain. I wished I knew were I was. I wanted it to keep raining because I could feel it.
Sasha’s parents were out for the night, so Sasha was left to baby-sit her four-year-old brother. We were both juniors in high school now. It was a spring night and the air was moist and thick. I made my way across the street and let myself in the backdoor of her house. I found Sasha in the kitchen topping off two glasses of Pino Grigio. She turned around and was startled. She looked amazing. She was wearing a white tank top and a pair of short gym shorts. Her hair was pushed back with a thin headband, showing every inch of her beautiful face. We kissed and she handed me my glass of wine and we took the bottle upstairs to her room.
Upon entering her room, she flung open a set of doors that led to her balcony, allowing the warm breeze to breathe through her room. There were already half a dozen candles lit in her room, and when she extinguished the lights, shadows danced on the walls. She moved around her room as if she was in a musical. Every movement was so fluid and graceful.
I looked out of the balcony doorway into the cloudy sky just as it started to rain. Sasha came and stood under my arm and we watched the rain together for a few minutes. As it started to come down harder, she looked up at me without moving her head, seducing me instantly. She took my wine glass and placed it gently with hers next to the alarm clock on her nightstand. She sat on her bed and motioned for me to come near her. My body was radiating heat from nervousness. She took my hands and pulled me onto the bed, clutching my shirt and forcing my lips against hers. A cloud burst and the rain poured passionately into the night.
I was going in and out of consciousness. My body was soaked, and I could feel enough to know that I couldn’t move. The sound of pouring rain was deafening me and I could hear the static of a bad radio signal. There were spots of bright light in the midst of my blurry vision, but still nothing I could focus on. The rain was seeping into me. I was starting to get worried as I realized I should be able to move. I told my brain to move my arm, and I went from feeling a cold numbness to a burning pain. I quickly relaxed but my arm continued to pulsate with pain. Rather than try the same experiment with the rest of my body, I just closed my eyes and tried to think.
I wished I knew what happened. I tried to remember something before now. My head hurt and I had no clear memory of anything. The rain continued to fall on my face and concentrating on the raindrops seemed to take away from pain I was now experiencing. The radio static was starting to bother me and the lights were getting brighter and brighter before disappearing, only to be replaced by more lights. Everything hurt. Another sound entered the mix, a droning high-pitched sound.
It hit me. The sounds, the pain, the light, the rain, the numbness, it all came together. I started to panic and tried desperately to move every muscle in my body. My efforts were met only by excruciating pain and discomfort. I was stuck. I was pinned to the driver’s seat of my car. The sound of the rain was stronger than ever and I could hear the sound of cars swishing by. The sirens were getting closer. Despite getting results contradictory to what I wanted, I continued to struggle. I could feel pieces of glass and metal all over my body. The rain I tasted on my lips now tasted like blood and tears.
The sirens started to fade. The lights started to get dimmer. The crackling started to become a soft buzz. The pain turned into numbness and I stopped struggling.
I picked up Sasha a few minutes late because it was raining. She looked gorgeous. She was wearing a dark green strapless dress that made her eyes look radiant. We kissed, and for the first time in a long time, I got butterflies in my stomach. I took a deep breath and walked her under an umbrella to my car. I opened the passenger side door and helped her in, shutting the door carefully behind her. As I made my way back around to the driver side, I nervously kept touching the ring box in the depths of my pocket. My palms were sweating and I could feel my heart beating in every part of my body. The night was perfect.
I lied there in the dark. Everything was quiet except for a faint ringing that seemed to be coming from all around me. I was warm and I felt sedated. I didn’t know if I could move from where I was, but I didn’t want to anyway. I didn’t even know where I was, but I didn’t care at the moment. I blinked for what seemed like an eternity. My eyes finally re-opened and it was still very dark. The ringing was getting louder now, and slightly more distinct. It had turned into a crackle more than a ringing, and it was making me curious. I wanted to find the noise.
I shut my eyes so that I could try harder to concentrate on the noise. I don’t think it got any darker when my eyelids met, but I could hear more. There was a new noise accompanying the high-pitched ring. I closed my eyes tighter and I heard it. It sounded a little like boiling water. It was definitely water. Maybe something was leaking. I got tired from squeezing my eyes closed so I relaxed. It actually was a little brighter with them open, but I still couldn’t see much. I wondered where I was.
* * * * *
We always walked home together to our houses across the street from each other on Ridge Road, everyday since fifth grade when our mothers allowed us to walk home from school. It was now eighth grade and Sasha and I were still best friends. I always thought Sasha was beautiful, but never as anything more than a friend. She had the most gorgeous eyes I had ever seen on a girl. They were green and brown and very natural looking. Her brown hair was always perfect and always provided the perfect frame for the rest of her face. She had big lips that always seemed to curl into a caring smile all the time.
We were walking home one particular day when it started to rain. We decided to stop and talk in the dugouts at the baseball field until the rainstorm passed. We could always talk for hours, about the guys and girls in our grade, our teachers, and most of the time just life in general. On this day, we were talking about the boyfriends and girlfriends in our classes and who liked who, and who did what. It became apparent that kissing was the new phase for kids our age. I was fresh out of the “cooties” stage, so I had no experience in the subject. Sasha had no experience either, and for some reason, even though we were best friends, I always got the feeling like she wanted to kiss me.
We got to talking about it and what it must feel like and what you have to do. I felt comfortable talking with Sasha about it because we had been friends forever. I was looking up, raising one eyebrow trying to image a kiss when I saw Sasha slide herself closer to me on the dugout bench. I felt my face turn brick red and my stomach knotted itself when she suggested that we try kissing. She put one of her hands in my sweaty palm and pulled me close to her. We closed our eyes right before my dry mouth met her strawberry lips.
* * * * *
I tried really hard to concentrate on the sound. It was beginning to sound like a broken violin and somebody crumpling a brown paper lunch bag. It was becoming an effort to keep my eyelids apart. There was a blurry light all around me that seemed to be gradually getting brighter. I couldn’t find a specific point to focus on. The louder the noise got and the brighter the light got, I became more aware. I felt like I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, and I desperately wanted to leave. I started to feel the rest of my body, and all it felt like was pins and needles. I wanted to know why I couldn’t move.
Suddenly a drop of water hit my face. I must have just regained feeling in my face, because the drops started coming at a regular rate. Almost effortlessly I connected the sound of water to the drops on my face; it must be raining. The moment I associated the two, the sound of rain became so clear that I don’t know how I confused it. One of the raindrops dripped into the crevice between my lips. I could feel my lips, and using all the energy I could, I pried them open and put my tongue between them momentarily, tasting the rain. I wished I knew were I was. I wanted it to keep raining because I could feel it.
* * * * *
Sasha’s parents were out for the night, so Sasha was left to baby-sit her four-year-old brother. We were both juniors in high school now. It was a spring night and the air was moist and thick. I made my way across the street and let myself in the backdoor of her house. I found Sasha in the kitchen topping off two glasses of Pino Grigio. She turned around and was startled. She looked amazing. She was wearing a white tank top and a pair of short gym shorts. Her hair was pushed back with a thin headband, showing every inch of her beautiful face. We kissed and she handed me my glass of wine and we took the bottle upstairs to her room.
Upon entering her room, she flung open a set of doors that led to her balcony, allowing the warm breeze to breathe through her room. There were already half a dozen candles lit in her room, and when she extinguished the lights, shadows danced on the walls. She moved around her room as if she was in a musical. Every movement was so fluid and graceful.
I looked out of the balcony doorway into the cloudy sky just as it started to rain. Sasha came and stood under my arm and we watched the rain together for a few minutes. As it started to come down harder, she looked up at me without moving her head, seducing me instantly. She took my wine glass and placed it gently with hers next to the alarm clock on her nightstand. She sat on her bed and motioned for me to come near her. My body was radiating heat from nervousness. She took my hands and pulled me onto the bed, clutching my shirt and forcing my lips against hers. A cloud burst and the rain poured passionately into the night.
* * * * *
I was going in and out of consciousness. My body was soaked, and I could feel enough to know that I couldn’t move. The sound of pouring rain was deafening me and I could hear the static of a bad radio signal. There were spots of bright light in the midst of my blurry vision, but still nothing I could focus on. The rain was seeping into me. I was starting to get worried as I realized I should be able to move. I told my brain to move my arm, and I went from feeling a cold numbness to a burning pain. I quickly relaxed but my arm continued to pulsate with pain. Rather than try the same experiment with the rest of my body, I just closed my eyes and tried to think.
I wished I knew what happened. I tried to remember something before now. My head hurt and I had no clear memory of anything. The rain continued to fall on my face and concentrating on the raindrops seemed to take away from pain I was now experiencing. The radio static was starting to bother me and the lights were getting brighter and brighter before disappearing, only to be replaced by more lights. Everything hurt. Another sound entered the mix, a droning high-pitched sound.
It hit me. The sounds, the pain, the light, the rain, the numbness, it all came together. I started to panic and tried desperately to move every muscle in my body. My efforts were met only by excruciating pain and discomfort. I was stuck. I was pinned to the driver’s seat of my car. The sound of the rain was stronger than ever and I could hear the sound of cars swishing by. The sirens were getting closer. Despite getting results contradictory to what I wanted, I continued to struggle. I could feel pieces of glass and metal all over my body. The rain I tasted on my lips now tasted like blood and tears.
The sirens started to fade. The lights started to get dimmer. The crackling started to become a soft buzz. The pain turned into numbness and I stopped struggling.
* * * * *
I picked up Sasha a few minutes late because it was raining. She looked gorgeous. She was wearing a dark green strapless dress that made her eyes look radiant. We kissed, and for the first time in a long time, I got butterflies in my stomach. I took a deep breath and walked her under an umbrella to my car. I opened the passenger side door and helped her in, shutting the door carefully behind her. As I made my way back around to the driver side, I nervously kept touching the ring box in the depths of my pocket. My palms were sweating and I could feel my heart beating in every part of my body. The night was perfect.
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