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he works late summers and early autumns out at sea, and she stays home to mind the blonde haired babies, and to twist her hands together like bent branches tangled up in a fence. every year, she wants to escape the narrow halls of the house, to live in an old, vine covered brick one with three stories made from dark, smelling wood. she would go up to the widow’s watch and look out at the sea beyond the houses to spot her husband’s boat, just a spec in the distance. as he came in with the tides, the same waves would wash over her and render her relieved.

but now in the narrow house that is squeezed beside others identical like it, in the 21st century, the blonde haired babies cry when the thunder eats up the sleeping silence, and she gasps when the lighting strobes. she waits for the call on the last day of his contract. she has no widows watch to peak out of, no clue if he is floating dead somewhere in the atlantic drift as the storm clouds press down. so she twists those hands together tightly until they’re red, but it doesn’t hurt. these hands have always weathered her.

and her husband weathers storms.

I never have any reason to call you, so I wonder why I purchased all these free long-distance outgoing calls. Let’s just say our relationship is tenuous. Let’s just say that I often pay more when you call me.

You talk far too much about sex, it can be ridiculous and crude. You are immature seeming, young looking. Your light on the world is a dim one, it’s sad. You think everything is hopeless, everything is invevitable. You hate people and the world…you hate yourself. However, I love you. However, I will always.

Pets and hugs, her head heavy in my lap, her arms round my middle, her cheek against my shoulder, her sighing, her breathing, her squuezes and softness, her eyes squinting upward.

Her rush of affection.

Friends…more.

Madonna’s voice rings in my ears and I watch her fifty-year old mus­cles lift and stretch and rip­ple her skin. She’s still pre­form­ing even thought the eight­ies have come and gone with only a glim­mer of hope that they will return. Like when you see girls wear­ing neon leg­warm­ers and flo­ral print. She’s got­ten old, [...]