Hey guys! So I been having a lot of different feelings about a lot of different things lately and decided to channel all of that into a one-shot. I’m posting it on my regular blog because it has nothing to do with my other story, and you won’t need to have read any of that to understand this.
I tried something new for myself by writing from Josh’s point of view. I would really love to know what you guys think! Thanks to everyone who always supports my writing! <3
I never knew her name.
I knew so many other intimate details about her, like how her dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. She didn’t allow herself to do it that often, smile that is. So whenever one of them slipped out accidentally, I couldn’t help but take a mental photograph in my mind. I knew that her skin smelled like peaches, and her lips felt like smooth silk against my bare skin. She tasted like cherry lip balm mixed with cigarettes and tequila, but when she kissed me, it was as though she was trying to suck out every last breath from my lungs and inhale my entire being into her own. Sometimes I didn’t know where I ended and she began.
But I did know the way her body purred at my touch, begging me to find all of her secrets. I memorized every single one of her curves, discovering new points of pleasure each time she gave herself to me. She was my very own treasure map, and she led me to a bounty of gold like some famed pirate of the seas on a quest from afar. I knew the way she softly moaned my name whenever I slipped inside of her, and I knew the way we fit together like she was designed specifically with me in mind.
I knew that sometimes she wanted me to take my time, to draw it out and make it last. And I knew that sometimes she couldn’t wait; she needed me to cure the insatiable itch inside of her, to fuck her so hard and so fast, she wouldn’t be able to walk straight in the morning. I knew her favorite positions, I knew exactly what to say to her to turn her on like a switch, and I knew what she looked like when she came.
I knew all these things about her.
But I never knew her name.
She didn’t want me to know. When I asked her the first time we met, she told me her name wasn’t important. She told me I could call her whatever I wanted. For some reason, she wanted to be anonymous. And for some reason, I was okay with that.
I look down at the newspaper in my hand, and I read the words on the page over and over again until my eyes start to blur, and my stomach decides it wants to reject its contents. Before I know it, I’m stumbling over to the toilet bowl, clutching it desperately as I vomit up my lunch. It was a good fucking lunch, too. A foot-long sub from Subway filled with every kind of meat known to man and topped with everything I could fit on it.
What a fucking waste.
When my stomach finally surrenders and decides I have nothing left to give, I get up to my feet and weakly amble over to my bed, collapsing in a fit of despair. I can’t quite wrap my head around what I’ve just read, so I sit in a daze, staring blankly at the wall. Seconds, minutes, maybe hours pass. I don’t even know how long it is. But eventually I hear a familiar voice.
"Hey man, you ready to go?"
I look over and see Andre standing in the doorway of my bedroom, his hand on the door jamb as he stares at me curiously.
"Yeah," I huff out, my voice gritty and raw. It feels as though I’ve spent the last several hours screaming. But I have barely said a word all morning.
I rip out the article I was reading from the newspaper and fold it up into a small square until I can slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. Then I stand up lethargically, as though the emotional strain I’m experiencing has seeped through my pores, leaving me weak and unstable. As I walk past Andre, he stares at me long and hard for a moment before finally asking, “Is everything okay? You look like shit.”
"Not feeling too good," I mumble as I walk over to my front door.
My dog Driver scampers up to me excitedly, jumping up and down as though he thinks I’m taking him out for a walk or a drive. I just absentmindedly pat him on the head, too distracted in my own mind to really think about anything else. I can hear him whimpering in the background as I make sure I have my keys and then stumble over to my Audi with Andre on my heels. While we are opening our respective car doors, Andre suggests he drive, and I don’t even have any protest in me at all to counter that suggestion. So I toss him the keys over the roof of the car, and we trade places, me slipping into the passenger side seat instead.
I simply stare out my window as Andre starts the ignition. Finally, after a moment, Andre sighs and says, “We could skip this thing, you know? If you’re really not up to it.”
I just shake my head and tell him it’s fine, I’m fine. I want to do this, I say. But I’m not fine actually. I’m not fine at all.
Andre hesitates; I’m sure he knows I’m full of shit. I’m pretty much the guy that wears his heart on his sleeve, and I’ve never been able to hide my emotions very well. He can read me like a fucking book. But for some reason, he’s decided not to call me out on my lie. Maybe he thinks I’ll eventually give in and tell him. I almost always do.
We pull out of my driveway at last, driving through the Hollywood Hills on our way to some friend of Andre’s. He’s having an engagement party this afternoon, and Andre asked me if I would like to come along. I told him I’d love to come, and I had meant that at the time. Now I just want to bury my head in the sand. But Andre is always really patient and welcoming of all my friends, so I feel like this is the least I can do. I don’t want to seem like some antisocial jackass or anything.
As we pull up to a red light and sit in a long line of traffic, my eyes land upon a sign. It’s a flower shop, staring right back at me, calling my name in a voice only I can hear. I ask Andre if he can give me a minute, and he pulls over to the side of the street, unsure exactly what I’m about to do, but leaving me to my own devices. When I step into the flower shop, I am assailed with the strong fragrance of the various flowers. Honestly, I don’t even know where to begin.
I wander around the store for a while, trying to make a decision. A young woman with long blonde hair comes up to me after a while and asks, “Is there anything I can help you with today?”
I stare back at her with confusion for a minute, like I forgot that anybody else was in here besides me. Then I stutter out lamely, “Yeah, I… I’m looking for something. But I don’t really know what.”
She smiles warmly at me, and that somehow makes me feel even worse than I did before. I don’t feel like I deserve her kindness. “Well, I can definitely give you some suggestions if you’d like,” she tells me. “Are these flowers for a particular person or for some kind of special occasion?”
I turn back to look at the multi-colored display of flowers before me. Swallowing slowly, I finally say the words that have been ricocheting around in my skull, making it hard to concentrate on anything else. “Somebody died,” I say quietly.
She frowns and offers words of support, telling me how sorry she is to hear that. “So you’re looking for something for a funeral?” she assumes. “White is the color of mourning in many cultures and religions. I’d be happy to help you put together a very tasteful bouquet. You can choose between lilies which we have over here,” she points out. “Lilies represent life, so a lot of people like to include them as a way of honoring the life of the deceased. Of course, we have roses here which represent love. And then we have many other different types you can choose from, such as chrysanthemums, snapdragons, gladioli, or carnations…”
The words she speaks seem to flow right through me, and I close my eyes tightly, trying to remember a conversation I once had…
I stand in my kitchen, wearing only a pair of my favorite blue boxers, whipping up a batch of scrambled eggs. She stands across from me, watching me with some form of amusement perhaps, standing there clad only in one of my white t-shirts. I can clearly make out the outline of her breasts, her cinnamon colored nipples taut and strained against the material. When she reaches into a nearby cabinet for a glass, her shirt hitches up slightly in the back, revealing her beautiful, round ass for my viewing pleasure.
I love that ass of hers, so soft and supple, like pillows beneath my hands every time I grab onto those succulent cheeks. And the way she moves when she’s astride my lap, sometimes so slow like she’s made of molasses, driving me absolutely insane. But sometimes she moves with a purpose, bouncing on top of me like she might literally explode if she stopped.
I feel myself growing hard at the imagery, wanting very badly to take her right here in my kitchen. I’m pretty sure we haven’t ordained this room yet, and I’m more than happy to change that fact. When she turns back around, I’m expecting to see a devious smirk on her face, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. But instead, she looks thoughtful as she fills her glass up with orange juice.
After taking a sip, she asks me, “You know that song? The one about ‘If I Die Young’?”
Honestly, I don’t know where she’s going with this conversation, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to die young at this very moment if I can’t get this hard-on under control. I know we’ve already fucked twice this morning, before even getting out of bed, but what can I say? I feel insatiable around her, like no matter how many times I consume her, I’m still empty inside. I want her every damn second of every damn day. I think I might be addicted.
I shift uncomfortably behind the floating countertop, trying to think of unpleasant images in my mind that will help me try to get my erection under control and instead answer, “Yeah, I’ve heard it before. What about it?”
"I hate it," she tells me matter-of-factly.
"Why?" I wonder. We don’t often have conversations like this, that’s not really what this whole thing is about anyway. Mostly we just let our bodies do the talking. This is the first time she’s ever even stayed over.
She shrugs indifferently. “I think the lyrics are stupid,” she declares.
"I like the lyrics," I disagree.
But she just shakes her head at me, quoting the song. “‘If I die young, bury me in satin, lay me down on a bed of roses. Sink me in the river at dawn, send me away with the words of a love song…’”
"It’s pretty, no?"
"No, it’s bullshit. If I die young, hell if I die tomorrow, why the fuck would I want anyone to do that? Lay me down on a bed of roses? Is she serious with this shit? It’s not your fucking honeymoon; you just died bitch. You know what I want?"
I shake my head slowly.
"I want them to light my body on fire, throw my ashes over a fucking bridge, and be done with it. I don’t want people standing around and singing sappy love songs, for crying out loud! I’m dead. It won’t make any difference at that point. Save your breath."
I’m not really sure what sparked this conversation, but I just stare at her for a while, trying to come up with an appropriate response. I start to open my mouth, but she suddenly takes a look at all of the food in front of us and sighs. Finally, she says, “I’m not really that hungry, actually. I think I’ll go take a shower if you don’t mind.”
"I don’t mind," I respond.
And I watch her walk away, trying to absorb what just happened. I feel like perhaps I should have said something. I just don’t know what that something should have been.
I stare at all of the roses and lilies and chrysanthemums in front of me, and I suddenly feel sicker than ever. What am I even doing here? I’m doing what I think I’m supposed to be doing, what society says I should be doing. Paying my respects with flowers? She fucking hated them. She wanted to be thrown off a damn bridge.
I thank the lady for her help but walk out of the flower shop with nothing in my hands, my head bowed deep in thought. Now it feels as though there are twenty different hands wrapped tightly around my throat, choking the air right out of me. Guilt washes over me like a tidal wave, and all I can think about is how that conversation must have been some kind of cry for help. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. Because I was too busy thinking about her ass and all the things I wanted to do to her body?
I should’ve fucking said something.
I hop back into the passenger side seat of my car and slam the door shut, wishing I could slam a lot more things than just that.
"Okay, I’ve been trying not to be a dick about this because you seemed upset, but what the hell is going on? What the fuck is wrong with you?" Andre finally demands to know.
"I need you to drop me off somewhere," I tell him. "I can’t go to this engagement party. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you in the future, I promise. But I just can’t do it today."
He just shakes his head and starts the ignition, asking me where to. I tell him the name of the cemetery where I know her body has been buried against her wishes. And then I’m finally standing in front of a tombstone, the one they claim belongs to her.
She’s not anonymous after all.
She has a name and a birthday and friends and family. Things I never knew about her, things we never spoke out loud.
I slump down to my knees, a lump forming in my throat as I think back to the first time we met, just over two weeks ago. I was at some club in LA with Andre, Heather, and Avan. They knew I wanted to get drunk and just have a good time because I was in a bad mood that day. I had run into an ex-girlfriend earlier, and I think seeing her move on and be so happy without me just opened some kind of wound deep in my heart.
I felt angry and hurt all over again. But most of all, I felt lonely. And I hated feeling lonely.
At some point in the night, Avan pointed out some girl over by the bar who had occasionally been sending looks our way. As far as I could see, she was by herself. And I had enough alcohol in my system at this point to give me that boost of confidence that I might not normally have had in these kinds of situations. I strolled up to her casually, getting a better look at her. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that: jet black hair that hung long and loose, shimmering like a fresh coat of asphalt on a hot summer’s day, caramel colored skin, dark brown eyes, and a beauty mark right above her lip on the right side of her face.
"Hey," I say to her, watching as she turns to look at me, raising an eyebrow. "I noticed you looking over in the direction of my friends and I, so I thought I’d come over and introduce myself. My name is Josh."
She turns back to her drink and mumbles, “I know who you are.”
Clearing my throat, I joke, “Well then, I think it’s only fair that we even the playing field. Do you have a name?”
"Doesn’t everybody have a name?"
I shrug. “I mean, for all I know, your parents could’ve just called you ‘Hey you’ or ‘That one over there’ or something.”
This woman doesn’t even crack a smile, clearly unimpressed.
"So… nothing? You’re not going to tell me your name?"
"Nope," she says, throwing back the rest of her drink.
This is going spectacularly so far, I think to myself. I should probably walk away, as she’s obviously not interested. But my stubborn side is coming out now, and my bruised male ego won’t let me do that. So I persist.
"Will you at least let me buy you a drink?"
At this, she releases an incredulous laugh. “Are you even old enough to buy me a drink?”
No, I’m not. But I don’t say that. I know the guy behind the bar, and he won’t card me. Instead, I whip out my wallet and say, “What are you drinking?”
She stares at me for a moment, as though she’s exasperated by my entire existence. Finally, she just rolls her eyes and moves her glass forward. “Tequila on the rocks.”
"That’s it?" I wonder.
"That’s it," she affirms.
I grab the attention of the bartender and order both of our drinks. She practically inhales hers again, her face twisting up as it burns down her throat. I take a sip of my drink and say, “So, are you here alone?”
"You ask a lot of questions," she mutters in response.
"Well, you don’t answer very many."
"I’m not looking for conversation," she says bluntly, looking right at me to gauge my reaction and then turning back to the bar.
I look around at the people gathered near the bar. Nobody is really paying attention to us. So I lean into her closer and say, “Maybe I’m not looking for conversation, either.”
At this she turns her whole body toward me, looking me up and down, drinking me in with her eyes. When she looks back up at my face, she asks, “Seriously, how old are you?”
"Twenty. Why, how old are you?"
"Older than that," is all she says. "And believe me, I’m not the girl you want to take home tonight."
"And why is that?" I wonder.
She looks as though she’s contemplating something and then says. “I’m just not.”
"I disagree with you," I tell her simply, taking another sip of my drink.
"Why is it that when a woman tells a guy she’s not interested, he wants her so much more? Your ego? Your pride? You want to prove something to yourself?"
I don’t know why, especially since she’s not being very cooperative, but I feel a stronger boost of confidence than before. The alcohol might have something to do with that, as well. So I answer honestly. “Probably all of that. I can never turn down a challenge. But something in my gut is telling me that you’re worth all of my trouble.”
"Oh really?" She seems almost amused by my response.
"Then you have pretty shitty instincts," she counters, grabbing her bag. "I smoke. Is that a problem for you?"
I shake my head. “No.”
She turns back to her previous position, downing the last drops of her drink. Finally, she says, “I won’t stay afterward. I don’t cuddle, I don’t do pet names, and I certainly don’t do all that ‘talking about our feelings shit.’ Also, don’t get attached because I’m only interested in the physical, and I can’t stand it when guys get clingy.” She looks at me now and says, “You still interested?”
"Yes," I answer immediately. "But what do I call you?"
"Whatever the fuck you want to call me. Let’s get out of here," she insists, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
I pay for our drinks and follow her out of the club. I don’t even bother to say goodbye to my friends.
I think both of us intended for it to only last that one night. But she kept coming back to me night after night, and I kept welcoming her into my bed without any reservations. We used each other for our own gain. Not just to get off but perhaps as some kind of escape as well. I think I always knew she was trying to run away from something, maybe even from herself. But I was trying to run away from something as well. Run away from the loneliness that consumed my heart.
And I broke her rules because I became attached very quickly. Too quickly.
I craved her touch all the time, but part of me wanted more. I wanted to know her. I wanted to ask her questions about her life; what made her happy, what made her sad, what made her laugh, and what made her cry.
I wanted to know all of these things. But I never asked. I never said a damn word. That was not part of the arrangement we had.
Maybe if I had, things would be different now. Maybe if I had, she wouldn’t have swallowed an entire bottle of prescription pills and washed them down with an entire bottle of tequila. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be sitting here staring at a tombstone.
Maybe… just maybe.
Catalina Michelle Delgado
July 1986- March 2013
Siempre estás en nuestros corazones
I feel my eyes start to sting with tears, and I wipe them with the back of my hand.
"I’m so sorry," I croak out, my heart feeling like it might drop into my stomach. "I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you the way you needed me to be."
I don’t know what happens after we die. I don’t know if she can hear or understand what I’m feeling and saying. But I hope she can somehow.
Suddenly, I hear a female voice behind me. I stand up and turn around, blanching at the sight before me. For a moment, I feel like I’m staring into the face of a ghost, and I quickly rub my eyes to see if the image will disappear, but she’s still standing there when I stop, looking very confused.
"Excuse me? Who are you?" she wonders, clutching tightly at her purse.
For a moment, I can’t find my voice. But finally I squeak out, “Catalina?”
"No," she frowns. "I’m her sister, Elena."
I exhale deeply, and my heart rate decreases. “I’m sorry. You look just like her.”
She nods slowly. “People always used to assume we were twins. But we’re not. She’s a year and a half older than me.”
I nod back at her, stuffing my hands in my pockets, feeling awkward. “I’m Josh. Catalina was…” I lick my lips as I try to find the appropriate words to describe our relationship. But there are none, especially not now. So I finish, “… a friend of mine.”
"I didn’t see you at the funeral," she says.
I didn’t know about the funeral. I just learned of her death today. But I don’t say that either. I just say, “I was out of town, unfortunately. But I just wanted to come by to pay my respects.”
She nods again, satisfied with my answer. And then she deposits a small bouquet of lilies on her sister’s tombstone. She places her hand against it and closes her eyes, seemingly saying a small prayer to herself. I try not to be intrusive. When she looks back up at me, I say, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. Catalina was a great person.”
"She was?" Elena asks me, and I’m not quite sure how to respond to this. Reading the confusion on my face, she adds, "I haven’t talked to my sister in almost a decade. So that was a genuine question, not sarcastic."
I feel very sad hearing her say that. I couldn’t imagine my life without my brother. “I didn’t know her for very long,” I say truthfully. “But I think she was.”
She definitely had a hard exterior, but I knew she was different beneath all of that. It was mostly an act, an invisible shield that she had put up to protect herself from allowing anyone to get too close.
"Do you know why…" she sucks in a breath. "Do you know why she would want to kill herself? Was she really unhappy?"
"I wish I knew," I say sadly. Because I really wish I did. I wish I could turn back time and do things differently. I wish for so many things that I know will never be. "Anyway, I’ll leave you guys alone now."
"How did you get here?" she wonders.
"A friend dropped me off. But it’s okay, I can call a cab."
She looks like she’s contemplating something for a moment and then says, “I can give you a ride if you want.”
I shake my head and hold my hand up in protest. “That’s okay. You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.”
"I want to," she insists.
I finally agree, giving her the directions to my house. But somehow instead, we end up in an unfamiliar neighborhood in front of a pale blue house. “Where are we?” I ask.
"It’s my place," she tells me quietly. "I’m sorry; I didn’t even ask you if you were okay with that. And I’m not trying to be creepy or anything, but I was wondering… do you want to come in?"
I watch her fiddle with the hem of her shirt, her hands shaking with nerves.
"I don’t know," I say with uncertainty, not really understanding what’s going on.
"I can make coffee," she offers. "It’s just that… my ex has my son for the weekend, and I guess I’m just feeling pretty lonely. I figured since you were a friend of Catalina’s, I could trust you. But now that I’m saying this all out loud, I can understand that I sound a little bit crazy." She shakes her head and laughs awkwardly. "Never mind, I’ll just take you home."
But when she puts her hand on the key to start the ignition, I stop her. She looks at me curiously, and I say, “I’ll come in.”
Several minutes later, we’re in her kitchen, waiting for the coffee to grind and standing there with no real conversation. Finally, she asks, “How did you and Catalina meet?”
"I was out with friends one night, and I ran into her at a club," I tell her the truth.
"And you guys were just friends? She wasn’t seeing anyone?"
"Not as far as I know."
I watch her reach for several coffee mugs out of a cabinet, and I can’t help but wonder what happened to cause the two of them to not speak for nearly a decade. I know it’s not my place or business to ask, but I hear myself doing it anyway. “What happened… what happened with you and Catalina? Why haven’t you seen each other in so long?”
She places the mugs down onto the countertop and sighs deeply. “It’s a really long story. Catalina got pregnant in high school and ended up having an abortion. My parents are deeply religious and conservative people, and they practically disowned her for that. She dropped out of school and ran away with her boyfriend, and I don’t think she ever stopped running after that. My parents forbade me from trying to have any kind of relationship with her, and after a while, I guess she stopped trying. Maybe in her mind I was just like them, even though I wasn’t. I tried writing to her over the years and tried to reconcile our relationship many times, but she never responded. I didn’t even know she was back here in LA until we heard news of her death.”
"I’m really sorry," I tell her genuinely, watching as the tears pool in her eyes and slip down her cheeks. And I feel the urge to reach out and give this woman a hug, even if I don’t know her. But maybe I want to know her. Maybe it’ll help me feel closer to Catalina, even just the tiniest bit.
"It’s not your fault," she tells me. "You don’t have to be sorry."
"But I am," I insist. "I’m sorry that you lost your sister not just recently but a long time ago. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t stop her from hurting herself. I think I was too selfish or too distracted to realize that she needed more than just…" I bite my lip, unable to finish that sentence.
But I think she understands because she places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure Catalina knows you cared about her, even if you feel like you should have done more. Don’t beat yourself up about it. That kind of stuff eats at you if you keep it bottled up inside, and it slowly destroys your soul. You can’t carry the burden of somebody else’s decision on your back your whole life. You can only learn from your mistakes and hope that next time will be different.”
I feel like I should be the one comforting her, and here she is, saying all of this to me. It’s a strange situation. She hands me a cup of coffee, and we spend the rest of the afternoon chatting idly about any and everything. It’s weird how easily the conversation flows now, like we’ve known each other much longer than a few hours. I ask Elena every question I had ever wanted to ask Catalina, and in turn, she asks me the kinds of questions most people don’t bother with.
It’s cathartic for both of us.
When she drops me off at my house later, I ask if I can have her number, and when she hesitates for a moment, I promise it’s not what she thinks. She finally gives it to me, and I set my alarm for 9 AM the next morning.
When I wake up, the first thing I do is give her a call.
"Hello?" she answers somewhat groggily.
"Elena, it’s Josh. I’m sorry if I woke you up."
"No," she protests. "It’s fine. I was just about to get up anyway. Did you need something?"
"I wanted to thank you for yesterday. And I wanted to tell you three things that I learned about you."
"What do you mean?"
I sit up a bit straighter and say, “I learned that you take your coffee with exactly three teaspoons of sugar and three teaspoons of milk. That’s the formula you need to make it taste right. And if you somehow mess up the formula, you start all over again with a fresh cup.”
"I learned that you collect old vinyl records, and your absolute favorite is Abbey Road by the Beatles. You used to sit in your room and listen to that one on repeat when you were a teenager. It helped you a lot when Catalina left. And I learned that you’re a huge Dodgers fan. You have an extensive knowledge of the team that dates back to their inception. And you have a lot of great memories of sitting on your couch on Sunday afternoons watching the game with your dad."
She sighs on her line. “What does all of that mean?”
"It means that you’re not just a name and a face to me, you’re a person with details. And I want to learn all of your details. Because I know they’re worth learning. And I know you’re worth getting to know. I’m going to call you every day and tell you three new things I’ve learned about you. I never want you to forget that somebody out there listens to you and somebody out there cares."
She’s quiet for a moment before saying, “This won’t bring Catalina back, you know? I’m not sure if you’re trying to ease your conscience or whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish, but it’s okay. You don’t have to do that.”
"A very wise person told me that we learn from our mistakes, and we hope they don’t happen again. I’m trying to be a better person."
"I appreciate that, I really do. But I’m not Catalina. I’m not going to hurt myself like she did."
I shake my head like she can even see it and reply, “No, you’re not. Because I’m not going to ever let you feel like you have to.”
The line is eerily quiet now, and I wonder if she’s hung up the phone. But I don’t hear a dial tone, so I assume she hasn’t. “Elena?”
Finally, she says, “When you were about six or seven, you broke your elbow while playing on the monkey bars. But you were still determined to learn how to swim, so you did it that same summer with your cast on. You have three dogs, one you adopted about a year ago which was a rescue puppy. He’s a pit bull, and you named him after Ryan Gosling’s character in the movie Drive. And though you pride yourself on being pretty much fearless, you absolutely cannot stand spiders. You’re terrified of them, and you think they’re always up to no good.”
I can feel my lips curve into a smile, and I ask, “What’s that?”
"Those are three things I learned about you," she says. "This is a two-way street."
"Okay then… I’ll let you go now and get on with your day. Same time tomorrow?" I ask.
"Maybe try a little bit later in the morning so I’m a little more awake."
"10 o’clock good for you?"
She laughs, and I can’t help but laugh back. It’s such a good feeling to be able to do that with somebody. Laughter is like medicine for the soul, they say. And I think it’s true because it honestly feels like somebody’s released an antidote straight into my blood stream, rushing through my veins like a cool ointment on a bad burn.
I feel hopeful now.
"Yeah, that works for me."
"Good, it’s a deal."
(banner made by Sammy)
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