add a little vinegar
16 August 2005 22:32![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amulOver dinner, I realized that Christine's birthday is in a few days. Milwaukee Angel looks up from her plate, "Is that good or bad?"
Just another date which no longer has any meaning in my life. Truth to tell, I think it'll mean more when I don't remember until after.
She nods, and we each pick up the drumstick that's left on our plates, and feast on dead animals and cold hurts.
"Your apartment looks like a home," she tells me wistfully. Yours will be too, someday.
I don't really know how to talk to MA. She'd heard my entire life story before she ever met me. Thorn Chain told her, over long months of sleep deprivation and rum. Moon Howler told me all her sad stories as well, as we glued ghosts onto rafters, hid ghouls behind walls, and laid out paths for children to run down screaming.
Conversation between us has always been strained because of that. We each tore our lives apart at the same time, and our mutual friends, so sure we would recognize a bond between us and find healing in each other, felt no compunction against sharing our stories for us.
"Yes," they'd tell us, "the other has felt the same thing. You two really should talk." When we finally met, there was nothing left to say, and now we each stare at the other from across the sea of shared burdens and hesitate to admit the things we know.
Later, she flips through my one of my portfolios. "These all seem really sad, like they're from...." Hesitation has become a word between us. Yes, it's from then. And then, the sweetest praise I've ever heard, "I recognize myself in them."
No, that is me you're seeing.
We stare into our cups, and if hesitation is a word, then silence becomes a dialogue.
Just another date which no longer has any meaning in my life. Truth to tell, I think it'll mean more when I don't remember until after.
She nods, and we each pick up the drumstick that's left on our plates, and feast on dead animals and cold hurts.
"Your apartment looks like a home," she tells me wistfully. Yours will be too, someday.
I don't really know how to talk to MA. She'd heard my entire life story before she ever met me. Thorn Chain told her, over long months of sleep deprivation and rum. Moon Howler told me all her sad stories as well, as we glued ghosts onto rafters, hid ghouls behind walls, and laid out paths for children to run down screaming.
Conversation between us has always been strained because of that. We each tore our lives apart at the same time, and our mutual friends, so sure we would recognize a bond between us and find healing in each other, felt no compunction against sharing our stories for us.
"Yes," they'd tell us, "the other has felt the same thing. You two really should talk." When we finally met, there was nothing left to say, and now we each stare at the other from across the sea of shared burdens and hesitate to admit the things we know.
Later, she flips through my one of my portfolios. "These all seem really sad, like they're from...." Hesitation has become a word between us. Yes, it's from then. And then, the sweetest praise I've ever heard, "I recognize myself in them."
No, that is me you're seeing.
We stare into our cups, and if hesitation is a word, then silence becomes a dialogue.
