Love’s Trouble For Me

She’s beautiful too.  Clean.  Her hair is always glossy and she doesn’t fan out on the makeup; a little liner, when I’m in town she puts on a little mascara, a little lip gloss.  I can still see a few freckles across her nose.  So sweet, so dedicated. 


I, of course, worried after I fell in love that I would lose my edge.  Edge is everything in my business.  Love blunts every edge; I don’t care who you are.  It’s cruel if I don’t stay sharp, razor sharp.  If I take a swipe at someone and my edge has been blunted, well let’s face it they suffer.  If I’m not hampered by the preoccupations of love, that swipe is painless, goes without a hitch, you’re dead before your mind can reach even the idea of pain.

Yes, I’m a professional.

I was in love once before, years ago when I was young.  I mean, you know love.  I can’t help what I am, I can’t.  She didn’t understand and she moved to Milwaukee.  I was devastated.  I think that disappointment was what gave me my edge.  I wanted to hate her, I really did but I couldn’t.  Years later I had a job in that area and I looked her up.  She was still fine and she seemed happy.  I said hello and she seemed edgy, a little scared but okay.  Next thing I know she’s in Green Bay, then she’s in St Paul and divorced.  I called her a year later, you know just to check on her, make sure she was okay.  She was in Seattle.  I point blank asked her if she wanted me to look up her ex-husband and she said no.  She was emphatic about it, so I didn’t and I won’t.  She’s in Tokyo now, seems to be doing alright.

I met my new lease on life during an emergency room visit in Chicago.  One of those big hospitals.  I had run into a little bit of a problem in New Albany, thought I was okay but started running a fever while vacationing in Chicago.  I love that city; Chicago.  Anyway, I met Alice there.

Alice is tough as nails and hates her name so I call her Honey and Babe and things like that.  She’s an ER nurse and man, some of the stories she tells makes my skin crawl.  I mean she’s seen shotgun wounds, and people beaten to a pulp.  Then there are the car accidents and the scum of the earth who hurt their kids.  I was in tears one night; I don’t know how she stays sane.

She’s beautiful too.  Clean.  Her hair is always glossy and she doesn’t fan out on the makeup; a little liner, when I’m in town she puts on a little mascara, a little lip gloss.  I can still see a few freckles across her nose.  So sweet, so dedicated.

I, of course, tell her I have no family.  I’m not an idiot, I keep her well protected.  I am human; some may doubt that but I am very human.  She loves to read old novels and I’m starting to understand why.  I like The Portrait of Dorian Gray and The Invisible Man – man can you imagine how I can relate?



I Shall Not Reenter That Prison

Yet, I’m completely calm as Huron raves, slinging her water spout and waves.

Longing and yearning are simply not tortures I put myself through

There was a day, not too long ago, I would allow the heart to ache

Until I read Keats and was truly unimpressed and admired only his words.


I was born in the century where hell came through the school room floor

It expanded into large gymnasiums and Olympic-sized pools

History became a way to demoralize my faith and mathematics, God.


Can you hear me?  Can you hear me shout from atop my high mountain?

Down here where the seas storm taking down the souls of poor sailors

Yet, I’m completely calm as Huron raves, slinging her water spout and waves.


Oh beauty, if you could only feel the numbing cold and sharp water

Feel the hurt of winter and hear the cry of gulls

To feel the shock of warmth standing naked before the fire


Don’t you see?  Can’t you understand?

It’s the burden of inhibition, the burden of self-preservation that separates us

I’ve shed the pretense of beauty, I shall not reenter that prison.


She knew that going wasn’t necessarily allowed.

She could not stand another moment in her small apartment – not with the carnival going on.  The carnival had been in town for three days – tonight would be its last.  She thought, with regret, of the workers waking up on a Sunday as she walked to church, silently unhinging their mechanical rides and sweeping up the small pieces of litter that escaped the trash receptacles.  She did not want to hear the squeak and rub of peopleless rides before she had a chance to enjoy a Saturday night at the carnival.

The town welcomed the carnival every year but she could never attend – the carnival was too worldly for her family – still was, but her family need not know she found the lights, the noise, the smells so fascinating. Besides she was on her own – she needed to make decisions on her own. She would be up early in the morning and get to church early, but tonight she had to know what the carnival was all about

She hesitated at the gate, five dollars was a lot of money to walk around a carnival.

“Half price, half price now until we close down.”

A sign she felt and so put her money down.

She would simply be careful with her milk and eggs – they could last the entire week.

She ducked her head shyly as a gust of wind pulled and fluttered the canopy at the entrance and the ticket taker gave her, what she thought was a wicked grin.

She hurried along the carnival grounds and listened to the sounds of young children shouting with delight as the mechanical rides twirled black against the red-orange sunset sky.  A small family of four walked ahead of her laughing and sharing pink cotton candy. She smiled at their compact and secret ways of knowing each other; the dip and sway of the candy making its way to sticky fingers all, in turn, the smiles upon each face.

She was careful to stay away from the rides but watched the Ferris-Wheel glided several times around against the then darkened sky.  The last of the summer warmth curled about her in a soft breeze that lifted her hair in a gently swaying lift that seemed to keep rhythm with the music being played.

“Do you want to ride?”

His voice was deep and directly behind her. She jumped and turned, then stepped back.  He was tall and slender and she was sure he had some sort of makeup on his face. His eyes were startling brown, golden flecked and when he smiled at her and tilted his head she thought for a moment that they turned red.

“You’ve been watching that wheel for some time. I own this little place – I’ll make sure you have a ride.”

“No thank-you.”

“Why not? This is our last night.  We’ve done very well – I don’t think we will miss the price of one Ferris-Wheel ticket.”

He glided her past smiling and paying customers and walked her up the back stairs, where weary workers, not much older than she, dressed in black and white shirts, stepped aside as they walked by. “She’s next,” and she went inside a small cage seat that swung precariously back and forth and she was lifted up into the summer night sky.

She came back down and he was still there and laughing at her frightened face. “Look straight out, not down, child.”

So she did and gasped at the sight.  Her small town was all alight. She saw the church steeple, the town square and felt she was level with the flag on the courthouse tundra. She twisted around carefully not wanting the seat on which she sat to swing too precariously – yes, just there but barely, the small farm where she was sure her family sat upon the screened in porch.

She swung down and felt her heart lift, she was sure that she could fly forward to whatever direction she chose.

He was standing there again, now smiling and she was lifted away gazing at his countenance.  This time she stopped at the very top.  She tried not to think of the small summer breeze slowly pushing the wheel backward and forward.  She closed her eyes the rest of the ride until she felt herself arrive within the well-lit exit.  A tired young man opened the gate and allowed her to step away unaided.

He was at the bottom of the steps. “Are you glad you went?”

“Yes,” she gasped and felt herself turn red to the tips of her ears and down her neck.

“Come I’ll buy you some cotton candy, looks like you could use some.”

“No, no please, I don’t really care for it. We had a cotton candy machine at church and I thought the stuff too sweet.”

He laughed aloud and she jumped, then smiled not comfortable but liking his laugh all the while.

“What’s your name,” he asked.

“Laurel,” she whispered feeling ashamed – this was no proper introduction.

“Well, Laurel, would you like to see the two-headed chickens or the trapeze act in the big top?”

She looked down and whispered no thank you and hoped he would believe her.

“Well then,” he said soft and low, “why don’t you let me make sure no one follows you home.”

She looked up into his face, somehow kind, somehow not.  He seemed without age and her heart pounded in her ears and her hands clenched around her waist.  She liked his stare and was very afraid.

“But you would be following me home.”

His face softened in the green, then yellow, then red glowing lights.  Touching his fingertip to her soft cheek, she felt a shiver deep down. He had found a hollow place within her brief existence.  She knew he would take and keep it.

Ice in Chicago

The sleet and the snow outside merged into an icy, shellac gray. When stepping into the sloppy mess it went invisible for a moment, then slid away into the next pedestrian’s shoe or boot, with a squish, and a slush, and a grimace of acceptance.

The sleet and the snow outside merged into an icy, shellac gray.  When stepping into the sloppy mess it went invisible for a moment, then slid away into the next pedestrian’s shoe or boot, with a squish, and a slush, and a grimace of acceptance.  The air was intensely cold and I knew that as the wind picked up, slicing over Lake Michigan, no amount of salt or chemical upon the sidewalks would keep the sloshy, miserable mess from freezing and turning treacherous.

I stomped upon the already sodden matt at the door, chiding myself for agreeing to come out on this freezing cold day. Chicago was never a safe city but to compound, the issue was the weather.

The smell of coffee in the agreed upon coffee shop helped, who wouldn’t put their head down and seek warmth?

The coffee shop was new to me, located near DePaul University.  It was a quick bus ride over but even that had its hazards this time of year.  The bus was near to capacity and I felt for a brief moment that I had walked into a doctor’s office waiting room when I boarded.  There were the red noses, the sniffles, the solemn, miserable-eyed stares from just about everyone.  A small child in a red knit hat sat upon his mother’s lap, his mouth open, a yellowing crust hardening below his nose.  I thought of turning and returning to my nice warm apartment.  Instead, I slowed my forward momentum, looking around at those who wouldn’t make eye contact and grabbed a rope.  I refused to think of who had gripped that bastion of public transportation before me.

I hung on as the bus swayed and jolted while we parka-padded humanity kept time to the momentum of Chicago ruts, potholes and traffic as best we could.

On a fine day, I would have walked, actually even on a cold day — but the thought of ice stopped me.  I walked through snow, no problem, rain, that could be pleasant, ice in Chicago, was another story.

Feeling as if half the battle was over after the bus ride, I walked up to the coffee house counter and a young man came forward. I gave a glance around, the place looked clean and the young man across the counter looked healthy.

“I’ll just have a cup of your house and that scone over there — do you make them here?”

“No, we purchase all of our baked goods from a specialized bakery here in Chicago.”  He spoke to me as he poured my coffee and warmed my scone, telling me, via a well-memorized script,  that the baker used only non-GMO flour and fresh ingredients, he even handed me a flyer about the place.  I took it but never read it.

I sat down as far away from the door as I could possibly negotiate and waited. He said he would arrive at around 6:15 or 6:30, depending on how transportation went.  I understood that.  The CTS was usually pretty good — but the weather was a factor.  I looked down at my coffee and scone. I was hungry but not for what was before me.  I understood, our first meeting really couldn’t be for dinner, a coffee shop would make a better excuse for both of us if we took an immediate dislike to each other, he could even glance in and keep walking.

I took a bite of the chalky white scone before me and thought, now would be a good time for him to walk through the door as I fought the dry pastry in my mouth.  I grabbed the coffee hoping that would help me dissolve the mess and felt the inevitable scald on my tongue. I swallowed hard, sat back and tried to blink the tears out of my eyes, thinking that any moment he would walk through the door.

He didn’t.

Actually, I was able to finish the scone, get my free refill and lose myself in the novel I was reading on my smartphone.

When I looked up I was the only one left in the coffee shop and the night was dark.  I got up pulled my bag up to my shoulder and placed my coffee cup and plate into a plastic tub near the counter.

It was 7:15.

The young man behind the counter gave me a small sympathetic smile as if to say — “he stood you up.”

I smiled down at my now dry shoes.  I then walked to the door and opened it to the cold and icy sidewalk and thought window shopping can be cold work in Chicago.  It was a sort of consolation.


Her Hunt

She even wondered if she couldn’t become capable of actual love.

The best part of her day is when everyone she works with is gone.  She enjoys her coworkers; she feels no animosity towards them but she enjoys the quiet promoted by their absence.  There is no shuffling, no one sided phone conversations, no opening and shutting of doors, no murmur of business as usual.

She goes about the small office, closing window blinds, making sure all doors are locked and making notes to help start her next morning.  These menial tasks give her comfort in a rushed and bustling world.

Her evening tasks give credence to the fact that she has survived another day.

She has kept to this job for five consecutive years.  She is proud of that fact and she is also proud of the fact that she has maintained her resolve not to hunt any longer.  She often ponders and searches for reasons as to why she hunts at all;  it isn’t her fault. Not really.  Perhaps.

The last successful hunt certainly wasn’t her fault and that fiasco was what strengthened her resolve to retire from all the complications and angst a hunt can and does cause.  She was tired, exhausted really and there he was, ready to rescue her. They all wanted to rescue her.  That was the emotion or reaction, empowering a man to come to her rescue, that was the crucible of her weakness; that weakness which invoked her power. Her prowess.

She had moved from Atlanta to Minneapolis.  The heat in Atlanta was excruciating and she only lasted one year there.  That complicated Minneapolis considerably.  She felt so mercenary in Atlanta.  She had just left Philadelphia and moved to Atlanta and in each of those cities she had fulfilled a hunt and that complicated things.  Philadelphia went smoothly, the hunt lasted three years and basically she tired of it and finished it.  But then she became too full of herself, she did not research Atlanta at all.  The only fact she focused upon was that Atlanta seemed happening, sharp, quick and she was in the mood to fit in.  The heat hit her like a ton of bricks and she got messy.  Minneapolis was just what the doctor ordered.

But Minneapolis proved too fertile a place.  She thought that perhaps she would try being normal and settle down.  Minneapolis would have been the place.  She knew that it wouldn’t happened, even while contemplating white picket fences, still a chance for kids… She knew eventually her weakness would take over.

And what a weakness, her power.  It took a certain type, granted.  There were those who seemed to feel that she wasn’t quite right, those who needed to be rescued themselves– she despised men like that.  Men who either couldn’t find their socks in the morning or needed that deep mental and heart felt connection.  No, those were not her type.  What brought about her weakness were men, prey, who insisted that she needed rescuing.

The sex was spontaneous to them and well calculated to her; the desperate moves, the weak knees, her weeping and his inevitable vitality expanding in his chest and the moving of heaven and earth to keep her safe.

She lasted in New York for almost two whole years but woke up one morning, felt that driving urge to make him beg for mercy and slipped the tiny needle in while he finished his last deed.

She was grateful that in Atlanta there was no beneficiary money – not coming so quickly from Philadelphia.  That would have definitely sent up some red flags to the densest of people.

Philadelphia certainly set her up for life – as wild a ride as that was.  She even wondered if she couldn’t become capable of actual love.  But in the end she needed to feel him drain, fade away, dissipate.

Now, five years later, not really needing to work but needing a place to belong she had managed to avoid the rescuing type.  She tried hard not to involve herself at all with coworkers, there were too many knights in shining armor to go around to worry her fellow coworkers.

No, the more expensive restaurants and upscale bars were the happy hunting grounds.  Certainly no clubs.  The fact of the matter was, however, she wasn’t getting any younger.  She still liked to keep that perfect distance in age but the rescuing type were not frequenting restaurants and bars as much.  Perhaps she was finally seeing them go extinct.

She hoped not.  She had one more move in her.  One more teary-eyed farewell for the onlookers to appreciate and then, yes then retire, dropping her alias and maybe even going home.

Perhaps the hard working delivery man who seems to expand his chest when she signs for deliveries would do.  They chit chat about the weather, he tries to make eye contact with her.  Perhaps she can manage a little sorrow on Monday to see if the fellow will follow after.


My Love

When he goes, I never seem to notice.  Oh, perhaps on a heavy and hot summer’s evening when I’m too tired to sleep, he crosses my mind but he is as suddenly out as I pull up my hair from my wet neck and back.  I tie up the damp mass allowing the summer night and my own body’s stillness to cool my skin and ease my mind from him.

I am hardness itself I suppose.  I do not feel so, though, as I cut the branches of the hyssop, gather the spring fruit, dry the medicinal and edible herbs and separate each upon their hook.  I feel tired and weary, not hard and brittle.

I suppose I sound like some forgotten lady in a fairy tale and you will be waiting for me to discuss my dark knight or darkening night.  That’s not the case you know.  I lead a normal life.  I wake in the morning, trudge to work, pay my bills, go to church.

It’s Adam’s curse to pull from the earth, and my lot I suppose to feel pain in giving him a child.  Long, weary years have passed and Adam is asleep and I weed the garden now and convince myself along with my sisters that the pain of birth is all but forgotten.

We lie to ourselves.

So you see, I’m not hardness itself when I state that though I think of him, I do so transiently during these summer days that keep the night away.

It’s when I see the leaf of the black walnut trees fall in a flittering, lighted and almost straight down fashion, even when the wind blows, that he becomes present.  I suppose it is their design that keeps them on the straight and narrow path down, and wonder if God gives even the plant life the free will to decide how to descend.

The hickory, the maples turn to their glow and shimmer that illuminates the night in a light that is not bright but burns.  This illumination guides my feet on a well tread path that fades as spring makes itself into summer.  I forget it is there, this path, while August forever lingers but I remember as October burns deep into November.

The herbs are hung and the doe and her young scatter before the smell of smoke and feel of winter.  I lift, at last, my mind to his longings.  Both new and familiar I open the gentle gate of the north wind that softly scatters the leaves of golden, scarlet, and brilliant dying green into a path.  His path.  His approach is affirmed as the leaves darken and hold upon their serrated edges the web-like hardness of freeze at my feet.

I lift my head and close my eyes as the wind heightens and the leave blow dry, the air about me turns into a whirl of frozen white.  The lift of weight and the fall of my harvest plunder falls away as we meet.  My love.


My Love / Lydia Ink by SK Woodiwiss