LINDA

It's been so long since I have been rejected and I'm not used to it. We spent one night together and I should have known that this was going to be a sex thing when he wouldn't kiss me on my lips. I should have known, but instead, I convinced myself that he wanted to get to know me better before we moved to that oh so personal step of kissing. And, yes, he wanted to get to know me better.

I must stop and wonder why anyone would think lip kissing is personal? Your mouth is the gateway to your stomach, which has a muscle that opens when food has digested to a certain point. If this muscle doesn't work correctly, one will have chronic heartburn and will probably have bad breath. However, whether or not the muscle is working properly, the eaten food will pass into the intestines, and turn into water, protein, fat, or waste. The protein gives one the energy to kiss. But I digress. I should have known that he had no real interest.

We talked before we moved into his bedroom. He asked me what my apartment looked like, which was what killed me. I was perfectly content thinking this was just about having too much to drink. But this question changed the rules. My answer would speak volumes regarding who I am, about whether or not I would be suitable for him, if I was good enough. This is a question someone asks when they want to get to know you.

I have white walls, he had white walls, my mother has white walls, my sister has white walls, and my friends have white walls. So I answered safely. I said, " I have white walls."

He then told me that he slept in his closet. He asked if I would like to see his bed, which of course, I did, so we walked, holding hands, into his bedroom. From there we sat on his bed, and proceeded to touch each other, but not with our lips touching the other's. It was a beautiful night.

Today, I saw the most beautiful picture. It immediately struck me that it would look great in front of light blue walls. This one picture inspired me to catalogue all my art. I have a tapestry from France, I have a modern piece that has multiple faces of the same haunting man, a picture of my grandmother on her wedding day in a pretty little gold frame. I have a pastel drawing that never made it into a frame and is nailed to the wall and one sad man, looking down. All of these things would look perfect in front of light blue walls.

I can't help but wonder, if we could turn last week into this week and he asked me, again, what does my apartment look like, I could give him a better answer. I could say, "I have light blue walls with art that looks good in front of light blue walls." Then maybe, if that is the answer he was looking for, he would have taken me into his room, to his bed in the closet, and kissed me on the lips.

I have been hanging out with a man. He reads me poems right before we go to sleep. He sleeps naked, next to my body, and sometimes, I hear him wake up thinking. It's odd how you can hear someone think, but you can.

I hear him think about life. His isn't exactly what he planned, but then you never know what you're going to get. One minute you are all alone and the next minute you are drunk hanging out with the love of your life, only you don't know it, and then you are drunk in a bed wondering if you are any good at pleasing a man, and you blink, and now you are living on a farm.

My first broken heart occurred when I was seventeen. I actually went to church because I didn't know what else to do. The church was open, but no one was home. I didn't know where I was supposed to go in the church, but since there was a kneeling rail in front of a grotto, I thought, "This must be the place."

I prayed. Praying is wonderful, because it's humans talking to themselves and working things out, only, because talking to yourself isn't acceptable in this world, we say we are talking to god. I sobbed. Sobbing is wonderful because it gets you high; the human body's own valium. I knelt. There was nothing special about that. I was alone in a church. Being alone in a church is wonderful because you can hear your voice echo and the soothing sounds can actually take you out of your body, and make you believe there is a camera behind you and you are an actor and soon, the director is going to say, "cut". Then you realize that you are the biggest loser for pretending to be in a movie at this point because your cousin is dead. But you don't feel so bad anymore and you get up, get in your car, and drive home, listening to the radio.

My second broken heart left me inconsolable. I still stand, two years later, and everyday, I look at his picture. I look at his picture when I brush my teeth and I suspect I will look at him while I'm brushing my teeth for the rest of my life. He is in a tuxedo in this picture. He is smiling. The picture is from his junior prom, and he was elected king. It's the same smile he had the day he died, or so I have heard from others.

He was a teacher. Well, he was almost a teacher. It was August 2 and school was going to start in less than a month. It was his first job out of college, teaching high school math. The same high school he was elected prom king.

The next morning his mother couldn't find him at home, even though his car had been parked in their yard overnight. She walked into their barn, and there he was, hanging from a beam. In one pocket a rosary, in the other, holy water. And that was that. His mother said, she didn't see the rope around his neck at first. She thought he was just standing there with his head down. "Jon, Jon?"

I'm here, now, not because of what I know, but because of what I wish I knew. This was my last attempt to wipe out my feelings towards this man. I thought if I could just see his face, I would know who he truly is and I would find peace.

I look around and I see him. I'm here, on a low riding couch, which I am deep down inside, sinking slowly. He is beautiful. I want his arms around me. I want him to see me, get up, and touch me. I don't want to look away from him, but I do. The couch has swallowed me whole.

He is looking at me with those eyes, filled with nothing but fire and peace. Those who know him well struggle to find words, words like clever and intelligent and sensitive, but that is not who he is. He is a purple and red sky and he screams as his wind takes you by the hand.

He took my hand, once, and I closed my eyes, automatically because he was going too fast. I had to take a deep breath, because I had forgotten to inhale for seconds. The air went so deep it touched my stomach. I shivered and screamed for more oxygen, but he wouldn't allow it. I moved my head to look up at him and he took his hand and slid it down my neck, gently. Softly. Suddenly, with the lightning, he slapped me with all his wisdom and might. And I bled.

You can feel here, if you touch the side of my cheek. This is exactly where he hit me. It still stings. It reminds me of a candle, because if you gently push on the side of the swelling, you can leave an imprint of your finger. And it's warm. The pain flickers in my teeth. It hurts, but the love is undeniable. And it is love. It is real and unchanging. This much love makes you crazy, foolish, and selfish. But it's still love and it makes us alive.