the black dress of second chances

The black dress. The last time I wore this black dress it was a thanksgiving celebration years past. This black dress found in the abyss of the growing smell of oldness in a second hand store in Santa Cruz. Not the type that overcharges you because its vintage no the type that gives you a great deal. The ruffles fall down the my neck down to the core of my stomach. Buttons who refuse to obey that I must keep rebuttoning. And the sheen of it all needs the right undergarments. Either nude or black make. The skirt is big and moves around further as if dancing with the stars could be mine. I gave it another chance to go outside the store and live a life beyond the confines of other forgotten clothes.

The last time I wore this dress. I went to an early Thanksgiving. The last time I wore this dress I realized I might be on a sinking ship of a relationship. The last time I wore this black sheen dress- I saw red. The waves of the red flag movement and sound telling me pay attention. To this. What is happening. Right now. The lightness of this dress propelled me to the bar to see the guy I had been dating. Him playing pool. Surrounded by a fan base of ladies. Me in the dress coming in stuffed with turkey but with buoyant possibility. He had beckoned me. Of course. I am not of the stalker make. And there we play and drink and be. Together. Until. It was closing. And there came part of his cheering section coming over. The woman looks at me. Unable to pick up on the social cues of dating. Are you guys together? She fires at me. Yes. I respond. That was not clear enough for her. I guess I was speaking in tongues again. Stupid. Me. Again. This time she throws the ball in my face. Like are you dating? No we are brothers and sisters. Who make out. Bitch. I repeat the words again -Yes-in the slowest, most threatening, the most step off bitch kind of way that three letters could ensue. She got the picture and bounced away looking for her next victim. It pissed me off to have such audacity.

Away we went home. My dress swayed in the laughter of what just happened. But there was a change in the pace. Of him. What should I have said? We were brother and sisters. Wishing maybe that I would have thought of something funny. But somehow we are still laughing. Til home. And upstairs. And then the redness of warning flew. As I turned on the light. The fan began to circle around the room spreading a collection of dust down on his bed. An accident. Of course. Kate I can't believe you did that. I am going to be sneezing for weeks. Don't touch the light switch. Again. Let me do it. It wasn't his words but his tone. That frighten me. That and being reprimanded for turning on a light. As an adult. From a lover. The flag arose and waved and colored the room of potential a deeper red than I was ready.

I stand in my dress of dance and lightness and sink. It was an accident I said. You can't be mad at me for an accident. But it keeps going. Let me show you how to do it. More. And then help me help you. I am getting a tutorial on light switch protocol in a scathing tone that makes me freeze. I clam up. Something inside of me tells me this is the tip of the iceberg of him. And my fear of him. Grows. I shut down. I never do. I never have. Being scared of someone you date. Might not the best of all scenarios. Might not be the dreams I have ever dreamt for myself. My hope for him feels to be diminishing. As he goes through the spiel in a tone left for no one but for me.

I stand in my black dress of potential. The dress of second chances. I gave it another. To breathe outside the confines of the box of the store. And wonder what the fuck am I going to do. Tonight. And the next day. The last time I wore the black dress of second chances. The light breezy material became heavy. The last time I wore this black dress. I didn't know what to do. But take it off. Lay in bed. Next to him. And decide tomorrow what to do.

i surrender. in this game of love. maybe.

hello folks- sorry for the unplanned break. i have been writing but not always sure on the sharing. this piece is about a library date gone wrong (we needed a date story). and don't worry i haven't given up on love just playing in the game. or maybe how i decide to play in it. all my thanks as always.

In the quiet. Of this library. Nothing exists. But the sounds. Of page turning. Keys punching. The whisper growing into. The wrapper moving. The forgotten cell phone ringer not silenced. In the quiet of this library. We found the conversation. Among others. Overheard by us. Too funny not to interject. Our laughter. Then the shaking of the hands. Exchanging of words. The distance of wanting a study break. And each time I would see him in this library. He would break the silence. First with words. Then with an ask out to drinks. Me wrapped in a yellow dress warm outside but trapped in this library. Him motorcycle helmet on top of his computer he never seemed to use. To be hit on by an undergrad made the yellow of the dress shine into my face. And then the blow of the kiss from his hand to his lips and out towards me. Flattered I was.

In the quiet of this library. In the quiet of living in this library. Of the quiet of the social life I had created. I depisied and relished in. In the quiet of the stairs I found he wasn't my junior but my peer through the maze of the circular stair wells down- the city scape bubbled around us the hills slide and the houses danced under the spotlights of the sun making a surprise appearance within the shyness of the fog.

In the quiet of this bar I look at him. Taking my glasses off in defeat. The short river of a line moves in between the sea of my greenish eyes. My anchors of hands fall onto the sides of my face painted beautifully for this first date. In the quiet. I didn't know what to do. I had talked. He had asked for a story after he told me he almost left. Before I got there. Because people don't always show up for these things. Way to complement me upon entering. The stories I tell-my true and tried funny stories -that the target audience of six to 70 years old seem to fancy but not him. Not a smirk, not a laugh, not a smile, inside or out. I am sinking in this silence.

I ask about him. He performed the soliloquy of boredom. I am boring. I am bored. I only do boring stuff. In every form, in every tense. Boring and more boring and wait boring again. In the quiet. I am lost. Lost in the library in the work and in finding him. And upon exiting the walls of books peppered with computers and in this bar company dark and drinks and anticipation in the quiet I learn. I learn the quiet. The quiet of him on this date is defeating me. I prompt about him coming to America. Shot down again. I am at a loss and the art of talking and listening and getting strangers and teenagers and new friends are lost in the quiet. As my white flag raises slowly while the rivers around my eyes opens up and the anchors I feel underneath release down.

In the quiet. I find. That first dates aren't great all the time. That the quiet interlude of a study break might only live in the walls of research. In the quiet of this bar as I sit next to this man I feel as if we are in our first fight. I finish my beer. I go to the bathroom. Pleading for help from God or friends or the universe. In the mirror I stare. In the quiet. It doesn't have to be this hard. In the quiet. I come back. But stay in. He decides to move his piece towards me. In quiet. I listen. In quiet. I know. That this first date will be our last. That some can only live in the the place you meet them and can't cross over into another place on the board of the game of life. He finishes his last drink. His 4^th in 2 hrs.

In quiet we end the date. In quiet I know that is the strangest date I've ever been on. In the quiet. Of my heart and my head. I hear the movement of what could be outside. There is a drizzle reminding of what was. I surrender not on this date. But in this game. In the quiet. I let go. For this moment. For a few. Until. The pace picks up again. Quietly.

unexpected things happen. every single day.

hello all- written this late spring from the prompt of the last thing I expected. I wrote about three things that happened unexpectedly. enjoy! and as always thanks all my thanks! ps thanks giants for that win!

The last thing I expected was to be caught in the rain. Again. The sun makes appearance and viola we forget the impeding weather reports-we forget what the last few weeks have brought us-we forget. So as I walk. Walk briskly for my break outside the rectangular walls of education-of learning of pushing and pulling into become ourselves. There it is-the drizzle and me-no umbrella, no jacket, and no one of my favorite purchases-adult rain boots. I walked still. To get the coffee pay for it. I had last week and a salad. For today. I walked naked there. No protection.

The last thing I expected was to open up my computer and see what I saw in it. As I did my morning routine of checking my students grades. I started talking to myself and almost fell of my chair- in happiness. For two of my students, two of my students some teachers had forgotten, had written off, not because of any negative attribute other than fatigue and overwork and under love, had done it. They had gone from failing to not. They had gone from bad grades to good. And in opening it and excitement for their progress-I didn't expect this great news-although there was work and plans and parents. But the bigger part believed they could make a change. And taste success as they smile meekly. It does taste good. And when I told one of the students favorite teachers the news. So that is the good news he said, what is the bad. I told him, there is none. Unexpected to him. The expectation high finally found. I walked in the smile of all three of us as I walked away.

The last thing I expected was to hurt a child with a underwear box. See there in the recycling laid two boxes of men's xist underwear packaging. A budding 10 year old was embarrassed by this. Why would my dad put that in there? To recycle. Yes, but can we turn it over. I don't want to see the front. The front donning a man with perfectly formed abs and arms and showing him sitting in the boxer briefs all in black and white. I would rather see the back. The butt I say. What is wrong with the front? You know. Her eyes look up in a knowingly growing into a woman way. Are his abs not strong enough? Shake head to the right. And left. Do you not like his arms? Shake again.

And then there is choice to run after her with the box. Just to make a little fun. Just to do it. But in the running and fun I by accident bumped her face with the box of the underwear model. And the unexpected words of since you hurt me with the underwear box-do you mind picking me up and swinging around? Unexpected. The unexpected happens. Every single day.