Thursday, November 15, 2012

All the things we never said

I never asked Henry about that girl, the one I saw him with. They were standing close under the street lights in Central Park, she wore a blood red velvet jacket and she kissed him. I kept quiet, just as I did with Carl when I saw him through the haze for the first time since that awful night.

I'll never forget the way he looked at me then, the way it seemed as if everything and everyone in that room dissolved along with the smoke and left us alone with each other. I wanted to ask him, I wanted to tell him how I felt and I know that I should have but I didn't.

I don't remember what he said, just that he held my hand in his and that it felt like falling. I leaned against his shoulder and I wanted to tell Belle all about how he forgave me because once she told me that he never would.

Monday, November 12, 2012

A different haze

How was your weekend? Mine was like a poorly scripted, slightly darker than usual, Dawson's Creek episode. Minus the pompous dialog.

Saturday, Chloe invites me to a party in Brooklyn, we take a cab to one of her ad agency colleague's apartment. "Oh, and by the way", she says as we get out in the dark, "he still has no electricity after the storm".

It's after an hour or so that I see him across the large living room, Henry, this time through the smoke from our breaths and the hundred candle lights*. He drags me closer without talking, he looks at me and only me and I can't tell if he's smiling. I sit down next to him in the sofa, we don't say anything and the smell from another moment like this years earlier almost paralyzes me. Maybe it's just the cold.

"Are you happy", he asks, the first thing he says after what feels like hours.

"No", I say.

"Good, only ignorant people are truly happy. The rest are just faking it".

Someone sitting next to us starts laughing nervously. Henry grabs my hand under the blanket, we both know it wasn't supposed to be a joke.

*Today's ad men don't smoke and they can't tell whiskey from brandy

Friday, November 9, 2012

No we can't

They say a new storm is coming but that's not why the streets here seem so empty. There are always people around, there's always traffic and noise but I'm afraid that if I scream all I'll hear is the echo of my own voice bouncing off the cold glass facades along Broadway. Instead I keep quiet just because it's... no, let me start over.

I don't do this to get validated. I've never cared about what people think, I just need to know I'm not alone. On election night I passed by Times Square and the tension in the air, the excitement and the anger and it frightened me because I felt nothing at all. Which pathological liar and hypocrite gets to tell me what to do for the next four years?

They care, the masses gathering to see their votes projected in neon colors on the Empire State Building, as if it really mattered and maybe it really does. I listened to their heartbeats and felt their hands creeping up under my clothes, so close until I almost couldn't breathe.

I went home and turned off the lights, closed the windows and my bedroom door, as I'm sitting here now, writing in the dark. It's 2 a.m, I'm browsing through your comments and emails and all the sweet things you've said to me. You compliment me on the way I write and every time you do my heart skips a beat, but it stops entirely when someone tells me I understand.

Ever since my father died I've been lost somewhere in a storm, alone in the dark, unable to make sense of the world around me. That's why I'm doing this, to at least try. Every word I post here is a piece of that puzzle I'm trying to solve, as hopeless as it sometimes seems. Like taking drugs to get over an alcohol addiction.

And when you tell me that the way I think somehow makes sense, when you tell me I'm not alone in this, I know it wasn't for nothing.

(Thank you)

Sunday, November 4, 2012


Passing through Central Park at dusk to the sinister sound of a hundred birds (that dream again). The first thing I recognize is his graphite Alexander McQueen skull scarf, he bought it because I told him it matched his overcoat. I've never seen the girl, her slender legs look perfect in black tights and 4 inch heels. He holds her hand, she kisses him softly on the right cheek.

Chloe sees it too. "Come" she says and grabs me by the arm. We were going somewhere but everything changes and she knows there's nothing to say. We end up on my bed with a bottle of Calvados, mother's shot glasses and a chessboard. She lets me win and we talk about Marilyn.

In the morning the birds sound different, I remember him calling me but it was just a dream. The letter I wrote to him still lies under a book in my night stand drawer and for the first time I actually consider posting it.