Tuesday, January 28, 2014
oldie/goodie
you love like I do,
silently, across tables,
in presence. you love
in deed and service; you confer
i love yous in the rustle of a passed napkin,
in the billow of a crisp fitted sheet, in the silence
of the way you're always attuned.
you love, and it lives in your eyes. and I, against
all expectation and quite surprisingly, flourish
under your gaze, grow warm and womanly and solid, and, in
whatever way you love, to what degree, I am,
every day,
brought peace
in how I see you knowing me.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
shells & cheese, astroglyde, a bad wine pun, and things that don't really matter.
Remember when it was cool to make lists about yourself? in, like, 2007?
And do you realize that 2007 was seven years ago? Seven years ago. I was twenty-six (for most of that year). I was catering and cake-ing like crazy, and I had no idea what I was doing, but the money was great and I was always exhausted and my office job was making me itch (though my coworkers were wonderful) and the crazy little hamster wheel in my head was beginning to fling the first turds of hmm, maybe I should go to culinary school....
I tried to do one of Those Lists about food, once. It went something like this:
1. LIST OF THINGS I LOVE.
2. LIST OF THINGS I HATE.
3. LIST OF THINGS I WOULD EAT UNTIL I POP LIKE A STINKBUG.
4. LIST OF KITCHEN PEEVES.
5. LIST OF FAVORITES THAT VALIDATE MY FOODIE-NESS AND MAKE ME SOUND ECCENTRIC.
Whatever was on that list, it probably tried to be a lot fancier than the throwback list you're about to read, though there may have been similar notes of goal and idealism, anchored by cynicism and mildly assertive self-aggrandizement, with a buttery mouthfeel and an oaky finish...?
Pass the chardonnay.
1. I'm Lisa. I'm a chef. There's nothing fancy here. I can cook well. I have some recipes memorized. I'm organized. I think that, once I get things down, things run smoothly.
[1a. Would I have what it takes to be a Gordon Ramsey? or a Thomas Keller, or an Alice Waters? Possibly. Even probably, in the right slow-cooker of pressure and experience and guidance (read; verbal abuse). But only because I'm a perfectionist who values mastery, not because I love it. The sacrifices would wound, not reward, because I don't love it that much. I would make myself miserable so I could convince everyone who admires my work that I'm blissful doing it. And so... no.]
2. I love boxed mac and cheese. Velveeta Shells & Cheese is my kryptonite; the kind that comes with the powdered quote-unquote cheese runs a close second. Were there no consequences to anything ever, I'd eat it daily. If you've been around here long enough, this is probably the eighteenth time you've heard this.
[2a. I eat boxed mac and cheese maybe once yearly. Not to be judgy-judgy at all, but how can you eat it more often than that? After I eat it once, I feel all parched and bloated from the inside. Like a fake-cheese-hungover blowfish full miserable self-injury, dragging my swollen cankles around. No, thank you. (Except that once-yearly thing. Mmm, sodium.)]
3. I'm not entirely positive that I want to be a chef forever. I'm not positive that culinary school was the best decision I could've made. I wonder, sometimes, if I shouldn't have stuck out my undergrad and gone to seminary instead. But I know for a fact that, if I'd forfeited culinary school for seminary, the experience would've been a completely different color than it will be when I finally do attend, and, frankly, I don't think the experience would've been as meaningful or transformative. That whole getting older thing, you know? I don't think I was as ready for, then, it as I will be in the next ten years.
[3a. But not for one second of my life do I regret leaving Tennessee (which I love), moving to Florida, attending culinary school, or pursuing professional standing in the food industry. It's been equal parts the hardest thing I've ever done, and the easiest fit I've ever found. Ability-wise, I'm a fish in water, plus the bicycle, and I love thriving in a difficult industry. Fulfillment-wise... well... I think fulfillment will be broader. But I don't even know what that means, so: MEAT!]
4. I hate cooking meat. I'd commit to happy shrub-munchery forever if it meant I never had to temp a steak, et al. Not that I'm incapable; my perfectionism is paralyzing, sometimes. You have to get it just right, and don't poke at it or you'll mess up the sear, and leave it alone leave it aloooooOOOOH MY GOD DO YOU SEE THIS YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHEF IT'S SHOE LEATHER WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU. Give me a good braise or roasted shoulder/butt any day.. but that's kind a cop-out. A sumptuous, everybody-loves-it, I-don't-care-what-you-think copout. I don't care who you are: if you eat meat, and someone puts pulled pork in front of you, you'll eat pulled pork.
[4a. Yet, oddly, I have a knack for fish, and, no matter the fish or preparation, I can nail it every time. *throws up hands*]
5. Favorite fast hot meals: 1) egg + salty butter + toast sammich; 2) pasta + salty butter/olive oil + parm with black pepper; 3) whatever leftovers I squirreled away, unlabeled, in the freezer: every meal, an adventure.
[5a. Favorite fast cold meals: 1) leftover roasted chicken + a good roll + Hellman's (Kraft = Astroglyde.); 2) cheese + grape juice + guilty sneaks of more cheese; 3) Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli. Cold. Straight out of the can. (see point 2a.)]
6. CASSEROLE WHORE.
[6a. EVEN BIGGER CASSEROLE WHORE WHEN IT'S LEFTOVER AND REHEATED PUT MORE CHEESE ON IT AAAAAAAH]
7. I could write a treatise on this: Our hunger drive is one of the most primitive, fundamental drives we have. To feed someone is to nurture them on a number of primal levels. And any brokenness on such a primal level is something we should grieve. Everyone has their food habits and preferences, and, although some are just outright unhealthy, I hate to see people shamed about their food choices more than I hate to see them making those poor choices. Shame might try to masquerade as education, but shame is toxic, belittling, and paralyzing, while education is enlightening, empowering, and, most importantly where such personal matters are concerned, usually solicited. Even if you mean your words to educate, the silent judgments you try to mask will shine through every. single. time. And most unfortunately, the people who will be quickest to sniff you out will be the people who have already know the sting of shame - the people who most need education, but who are too afraid to make themselves vulnerable to it.
[7a. I will not have that crap in my orbit. I just will not have it. It is primal; it is fundamental; it is sacred. Mind ya bidness unless you're invited, and, if you're lucky enough to get an invite, treat it like the holy ground it is. Change your heart, if you have to, before taking off your shoes.]
8. I ate way too much falafel tonight.
8a.
And do you realize that 2007 was seven years ago? Seven years ago. I was twenty-six (for most of that year). I was catering and cake-ing like crazy, and I had no idea what I was doing, but the money was great and I was always exhausted and my office job was making me itch (though my coworkers were wonderful) and the crazy little hamster wheel in my head was beginning to fling the first turds of hmm, maybe I should go to culinary school....
I tried to do one of Those Lists about food, once. It went something like this:
1. LIST OF THINGS I LOVE.
2. LIST OF THINGS I HATE.
3. LIST OF THINGS I WOULD EAT UNTIL I POP LIKE A STINKBUG.
4. LIST OF KITCHEN PEEVES.
5. LIST OF FAVORITES THAT VALIDATE MY FOODIE-NESS AND MAKE ME SOUND ECCENTRIC.
Whatever was on that list, it probably tried to be a lot fancier than the throwback list you're about to read, though there may have been similar notes of goal and idealism, anchored by cynicism and mildly assertive self-aggrandizement, with a buttery mouthfeel and an oaky finish...?
Pass the chardonnay.
1. I'm Lisa. I'm a chef. There's nothing fancy here. I can cook well. I have some recipes memorized. I'm organized. I think that, once I get things down, things run smoothly.
[1a. Would I have what it takes to be a Gordon Ramsey? or a Thomas Keller, or an Alice Waters? Possibly. Even probably, in the right slow-cooker of pressure and experience and guidance (read; verbal abuse). But only because I'm a perfectionist who values mastery, not because I love it. The sacrifices would wound, not reward, because I don't love it that much. I would make myself miserable so I could convince everyone who admires my work that I'm blissful doing it. And so... no.]
2. I love boxed mac and cheese. Velveeta Shells & Cheese is my kryptonite; the kind that comes with the powdered quote-unquote cheese runs a close second. Were there no consequences to anything ever, I'd eat it daily. If you've been around here long enough, this is probably the eighteenth time you've heard this.
[2a. I eat boxed mac and cheese maybe once yearly. Not to be judgy-judgy at all, but how can you eat it more often than that? After I eat it once, I feel all parched and bloated from the inside. Like a fake-cheese-hungover blowfish full miserable self-injury, dragging my swollen cankles around. No, thank you. (Except that once-yearly thing. Mmm, sodium.)]
3. I'm not entirely positive that I want to be a chef forever. I'm not positive that culinary school was the best decision I could've made. I wonder, sometimes, if I shouldn't have stuck out my undergrad and gone to seminary instead. But I know for a fact that, if I'd forfeited culinary school for seminary, the experience would've been a completely different color than it will be when I finally do attend, and, frankly, I don't think the experience would've been as meaningful or transformative. That whole getting older thing, you know? I don't think I was as ready for, then, it as I will be in the next ten years.
[3a. But not for one second of my life do I regret leaving Tennessee (which I love), moving to Florida, attending culinary school, or pursuing professional standing in the food industry. It's been equal parts the hardest thing I've ever done, and the easiest fit I've ever found. Ability-wise, I'm a fish in water, plus the bicycle, and I love thriving in a difficult industry. Fulfillment-wise... well... I think fulfillment will be broader. But I don't even know what that means, so: MEAT!]
4. I hate cooking meat. I'd commit to happy shrub-munchery forever if it meant I never had to temp a steak, et al. Not that I'm incapable; my perfectionism is paralyzing, sometimes. You have to get it just right, and don't poke at it or you'll mess up the sear, and leave it alone leave it aloooooOOOOH MY GOD DO YOU SEE THIS YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHEF IT'S SHOE LEATHER WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU. Give me a good braise or roasted shoulder/butt any day.. but that's kind a cop-out. A sumptuous, everybody-loves-it, I-don't-care-what-you-think copout. I don't care who you are: if you eat meat, and someone puts pulled pork in front of you, you'll eat pulled pork.
[4a. Yet, oddly, I have a knack for fish, and, no matter the fish or preparation, I can nail it every time. *throws up hands*]
5. Favorite fast hot meals: 1) egg + salty butter + toast sammich; 2) pasta + salty butter/olive oil + parm with black pepper; 3) whatever leftovers I squirreled away, unlabeled, in the freezer: every meal, an adventure.
[5a. Favorite fast cold meals: 1) leftover roasted chicken + a good roll + Hellman's (Kraft = Astroglyde.); 2) cheese + grape juice + guilty sneaks of more cheese; 3) Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli. Cold. Straight out of the can. (see point 2a.)]
6. CASSEROLE WHORE.
[6a. EVEN BIGGER CASSEROLE WHORE WHEN IT'S LEFTOVER AND REHEATED PUT MORE CHEESE ON IT AAAAAAAH]
7. I could write a treatise on this: Our hunger drive is one of the most primitive, fundamental drives we have. To feed someone is to nurture them on a number of primal levels. And any brokenness on such a primal level is something we should grieve. Everyone has their food habits and preferences, and, although some are just outright unhealthy, I hate to see people shamed about their food choices more than I hate to see them making those poor choices. Shame might try to masquerade as education, but shame is toxic, belittling, and paralyzing, while education is enlightening, empowering, and, most importantly where such personal matters are concerned, usually solicited. Even if you mean your words to educate, the silent judgments you try to mask will shine through every. single. time. And most unfortunately, the people who will be quickest to sniff you out will be the people who have already know the sting of shame - the people who most need education, but who are too afraid to make themselves vulnerable to it.
[7a. I will not have that crap in my orbit. I just will not have it. It is primal; it is fundamental; it is sacred. Mind ya bidness unless you're invited, and, if you're lucky enough to get an invite, treat it like the holy ground it is. Change your heart, if you have to, before taking off your shoes.]
8. I ate way too much falafel tonight.
8a.
Monday, January 13, 2014
paranoid.
paranoia: a tendency on the part of an individual or group toward excessive or irrational suspiciousness and distrustfulness of others; baseless or excessive suspicion of the motives of others; a thought process believed to be heavily influenced by anxiety or fear, often to the point of irrationality or delusion. (definitions collected from multiple sources)
This is the beginning of how I lost my voice.
"Are you still being paranoid about all this, honey?"
The question buzzed slightly through the earpiece of my cell phone and, in the way of cell phones, filled the empty room in which I sat, so that any inclined person could listen if they chose. And they might have chosen to listen, given that Stalker had been actively searching for me, that friends had alerted me to it, that I had just moved for the second time in five weeks in order to try to stay a few steps ahead of a person who had threatened to kill me in very specific ways - threats that I believed, and still believe. Oh, the drama. Who wouldn't want to listen in.
I hadn't told many people what was going on. I chose my confidantes carefully; because Stalker and I had many mutual friends, I didn't tell anyone in my immediate circles what was going on, and Stalker used this advantageously to keep tabs on me: have you seen Lisa? having a hard time getting in touch. have some of her stuff to return. where is she? how long? with who? do I have time to get there? Eventually, I had to terminate nearly all of my immediate friendships, and I restricted my list of those-in-the-know to those who might be in danger if Stalker showed up looking for me. Practically overnight, I tearfully forfeited nearly every friend I'd made in the previous year, and couldn't tell any of them why without risking my safety.
Bewildered. In shock. Going through the motions of what made the most sense in a situation that made no sense at all.
In the weeks after I left, my email and social networking accounts revealed repeated hacking attempts. I deleted at least two accounts before creating one using every safeguard possible, with absolutely no identifying details about myself other than my name. I was willing to pick up and move in order to protect myself, but I was not giving up the only connections I had to so many of my long-term friends whose relationships predated this disaster. Stalker knew who these long-term friends were, and I prayed that they wouldn't find themselves dealing with any part of this.
And so it goes that some dear friends alerted that one of their online accounts revealed a hacking attempt. We discussed a few immediate safeguards, then they asked me to call them. I did. How are you, honey? I don't remember what I said. And then.
"Are you still being paranoid about all this, honey?"
The word screeched against me, slammed into me with the impact of a train against flesh. Paranoid. "Wh - what?" I couldn't breathe. what did you say? you know how sometimes, people ask you to repeat yourself, and you rephrase in order to be better understood? what did you say? because oh my god, please don't have meant to call me paranoid. is that what you meant? do you know what that means?
"Are you still being paranoid about all this?" Repeated slowly, for clarity. In a concerned tone of voice, buoyed with a little determined lightness - the kind of tone that doesn't want to feed into or validate a delicate person's hysteria. Or paranoia.
I couldn't speak. I stuttered some things. "I.. I don't know. I..." Explanations, falling over themselves like waterfalls, slipped away as I reached for them; all that I knew was oh my god. please believe me. oh my god. Hindsight Me wanted to have stood in my own solitary defense, asserted this is not irrational, this is real, this is actually life-or-death, don't you understand?? don't you understand how serious this would have to be for me to leave the school and teachers I love, the job I love, the people I've been learning and working with, the experience I left everything to pursue??
But all I did was stutter. I never stutter.
"Well" - the buoy-concerned tone - "honey, we just hope things clear up soon. Because don't you need to get back to the real world soon? get back to school, finish things up, get back to work? instead of just kinda" - hesitates, voice breaks a little, in hesitation - "kinda living in fear like this?"
For the duration of that conversation, which couldn't have lasted any longer than ten minutes, I could not catch my breath. There were other niceties; I spoke briefly with the other half of the couple. I don't remember anything else that was said. I hung up the phone, shaking so hard that I couldn't stand. Paranoid. I walked out to the living room to relay the conversation to the friend with whom I was staying, only to have a witness to what had just happened before I lost those words, willfully or otherwise. Paranoid. Get back to the real world. Get back to work. Living in fear. For two days, it was as though I had to set those words on the table, sit down, and stare at them, completely baffled as to how, and through whom, they'd decimated the wind in my lungs. It was the first time they'd been uttered toward me; it wouldn't be the last. Little did I know that it was just the beginning of many such losses, each as devastatingly unexpected as the first. I don't know what to do, and nobody believes me. And I never imagined such a long arm of destruction.
And now, over a year later, I look back at the overall timeline of events, and chuckle with a total lack of mirth - this conversation occurred five weeks into this nightmare. Five weeks, almost to the day. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to ask exactly what "getting back to the real world" and "not living in fear" looked like to all the people outside my situation who recommended I pursue these, five weeks into a nearly yearlong ordeal, as Stalker continued to show up at my old jobs and residences, looking for me, mailing obscenities to family members, using aliases to find information: unfortunately, these were the real world, for a time.
More than that, I wish I still retained a fraction of the grace I had before all of this began. I value it so, but it's gone.
This is the beginning of how I lost my voice.
________
"Are you still being paranoid about all this, honey?"
The question buzzed slightly through the earpiece of my cell phone and, in the way of cell phones, filled the empty room in which I sat, so that any inclined person could listen if they chose. And they might have chosen to listen, given that Stalker had been actively searching for me, that friends had alerted me to it, that I had just moved for the second time in five weeks in order to try to stay a few steps ahead of a person who had threatened to kill me in very specific ways - threats that I believed, and still believe. Oh, the drama. Who wouldn't want to listen in.
I hadn't told many people what was going on. I chose my confidantes carefully; because Stalker and I had many mutual friends, I didn't tell anyone in my immediate circles what was going on, and Stalker used this advantageously to keep tabs on me: have you seen Lisa? having a hard time getting in touch. have some of her stuff to return. where is she? how long? with who? do I have time to get there? Eventually, I had to terminate nearly all of my immediate friendships, and I restricted my list of those-in-the-know to those who might be in danger if Stalker showed up looking for me. Practically overnight, I tearfully forfeited nearly every friend I'd made in the previous year, and couldn't tell any of them why without risking my safety.
Bewildered. In shock. Going through the motions of what made the most sense in a situation that made no sense at all.
In the weeks after I left, my email and social networking accounts revealed repeated hacking attempts. I deleted at least two accounts before creating one using every safeguard possible, with absolutely no identifying details about myself other than my name. I was willing to pick up and move in order to protect myself, but I was not giving up the only connections I had to so many of my long-term friends whose relationships predated this disaster. Stalker knew who these long-term friends were, and I prayed that they wouldn't find themselves dealing with any part of this.
And so it goes that some dear friends alerted that one of their online accounts revealed a hacking attempt. We discussed a few immediate safeguards, then they asked me to call them. I did. How are you, honey? I don't remember what I said. And then.
"Are you still being paranoid about all this, honey?"
The word screeched against me, slammed into me with the impact of a train against flesh. Paranoid. "Wh - what?" I couldn't breathe. what did you say? you know how sometimes, people ask you to repeat yourself, and you rephrase in order to be better understood? what did you say? because oh my god, please don't have meant to call me paranoid. is that what you meant? do you know what that means?
"Are you still being paranoid about all this?" Repeated slowly, for clarity. In a concerned tone of voice, buoyed with a little determined lightness - the kind of tone that doesn't want to feed into or validate a delicate person's hysteria. Or paranoia.
I couldn't speak. I stuttered some things. "I.. I don't know. I..." Explanations, falling over themselves like waterfalls, slipped away as I reached for them; all that I knew was oh my god. please believe me. oh my god. Hindsight Me wanted to have stood in my own solitary defense, asserted this is not irrational, this is real, this is actually life-or-death, don't you understand?? don't you understand how serious this would have to be for me to leave the school and teachers I love, the job I love, the people I've been learning and working with, the experience I left everything to pursue??
But all I did was stutter. I never stutter.
"Well" - the buoy-concerned tone - "honey, we just hope things clear up soon. Because don't you need to get back to the real world soon? get back to school, finish things up, get back to work? instead of just kinda" - hesitates, voice breaks a little, in hesitation - "kinda living in fear like this?"
For the duration of that conversation, which couldn't have lasted any longer than ten minutes, I could not catch my breath. There were other niceties; I spoke briefly with the other half of the couple. I don't remember anything else that was said. I hung up the phone, shaking so hard that I couldn't stand. Paranoid. I walked out to the living room to relay the conversation to the friend with whom I was staying, only to have a witness to what had just happened before I lost those words, willfully or otherwise. Paranoid. Get back to the real world. Get back to work. Living in fear. For two days, it was as though I had to set those words on the table, sit down, and stare at them, completely baffled as to how, and through whom, they'd decimated the wind in my lungs. It was the first time they'd been uttered toward me; it wouldn't be the last. Little did I know that it was just the beginning of many such losses, each as devastatingly unexpected as the first. I don't know what to do, and nobody believes me. And I never imagined such a long arm of destruction.
And now, over a year later, I look back at the overall timeline of events, and chuckle with a total lack of mirth - this conversation occurred five weeks into this nightmare. Five weeks, almost to the day. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to ask exactly what "getting back to the real world" and "not living in fear" looked like to all the people outside my situation who recommended I pursue these, five weeks into a nearly yearlong ordeal, as Stalker continued to show up at my old jobs and residences, looking for me, mailing obscenities to family members, using aliases to find information: unfortunately, these were the real world, for a time.
More than that, I wish I still retained a fraction of the grace I had before all of this began. I value it so, but it's gone.
Friday, January 3, 2014
raptures, at odds.
Currently, I'm sitting on the couch in a house with a couple who are in their late 60s/early 70s - tonight is her first night home, after several weeks in the hospital for diagnosis and treatment of some serious medical issues.
I walked in the door after a late night at work, about thirty minutes ago, and found rooms empty, empty recliner rocking slightly, the air tense under the high pitch of a muted TV - signs of life, no inhabitants. Chuckled briefly, to recall churchy childhood cautionary tales of raptured believers, empty houses, abandoned rocking chairs still warmed from the sanctified pressure of saved behinds.
I walked to the back of the house and, on a hunch, peeked into one of the spare bedrooms, where I found the husband standing in the dark, at his wife's bedside, hands on hips, shoulders high. She's not doing too good. He didn't turn to face me. What do you mean? She's pukey, and freezing. Otherwise alive. He chuckled, shoulders still high.
She murmured something, and he replied, "Lisa just got here. I told her you're nauseous and ice cold. Because you are." She sighed from the bed - a tiny gray figure swallowed up in a king-sizer filled and covered with cushions, quilts, her favorite fuzzy blankets. I asked if they needed anything, needed me to make a grocery run, do you have ginger ale? yes, I got some earlier.
We all hovered there in silence. Her husband stirred a bit and muttered something about getting a chair to sit in the room with her. For a half-second, as I moved aside to let him pass, I was transfixed by his eyes - brighter than I'd seen them in weeks, equally deeply-concerned and almost-gleefully relieved to have her home, after weeks of chafing at the walls of an empty house that barely breathed without her - fixing the bathtub faucet, cleaning his garage workbench, sorting towels - fixing her any way he could. Eating, without heckling, yet without much pleasure, illicit Sugar Smacks and potato chips she tried to forbid, for his health. Ready and so eager to return to the rhythms of arguing, and irritation, and macaroni and cheese with tomatoes, and peace, and talk, and the rapture of being with, after having been departed from, temporarily.
The last time I walked past, he was sitting in the dark, in the rocking chair he'd brought to the foot of her bed. If she were in a good state, she'd protest his hovering with genuine irritation bordering on anger; he knows it.
If I ever find love, this is the love I want.
I walked in the door after a late night at work, about thirty minutes ago, and found rooms empty, empty recliner rocking slightly, the air tense under the high pitch of a muted TV - signs of life, no inhabitants. Chuckled briefly, to recall churchy childhood cautionary tales of raptured believers, empty houses, abandoned rocking chairs still warmed from the sanctified pressure of saved behinds.
I walked to the back of the house and, on a hunch, peeked into one of the spare bedrooms, where I found the husband standing in the dark, at his wife's bedside, hands on hips, shoulders high. She's not doing too good. He didn't turn to face me. What do you mean? She's pukey, and freezing. Otherwise alive. He chuckled, shoulders still high.
She murmured something, and he replied, "Lisa just got here. I told her you're nauseous and ice cold. Because you are." She sighed from the bed - a tiny gray figure swallowed up in a king-sizer filled and covered with cushions, quilts, her favorite fuzzy blankets. I asked if they needed anything, needed me to make a grocery run, do you have ginger ale? yes, I got some earlier.
We all hovered there in silence. Her husband stirred a bit and muttered something about getting a chair to sit in the room with her. For a half-second, as I moved aside to let him pass, I was transfixed by his eyes - brighter than I'd seen them in weeks, equally deeply-concerned and almost-gleefully relieved to have her home, after weeks of chafing at the walls of an empty house that barely breathed without her - fixing the bathtub faucet, cleaning his garage workbench, sorting towels - fixing her any way he could. Eating, without heckling, yet without much pleasure, illicit Sugar Smacks and potato chips she tried to forbid, for his health. Ready and so eager to return to the rhythms of arguing, and irritation, and macaroni and cheese with tomatoes, and peace, and talk, and the rapture of being with, after having been departed from, temporarily.
The last time I walked past, he was sitting in the dark, in the rocking chair he'd brought to the foot of her bed. If she were in a good state, she'd protest his hovering with genuine irritation bordering on anger; he knows it.
If I ever find love, this is the love I want.
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