The Seamless Girl

 

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Introduction

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Chapter 1

I took the last picture of you down from my mirror: the mirror we shared together, picked out together and bought together. Your picture was wedged in between the glass and the solid cherry frame square frame. Many mornings I would wake up to ‘I love you” or “143” written in my lipstick on the solid pane of glass. Now, there was no I love you, no 143 and all of my lipstick was packed. All I had was this picture of you. The sunlight shone down on you; you were sitting in the grass in your khaki shorts and plain black polo, trying to make the duck sound with the blade of grass. A smile spread across my lips as I thought back to that day. We were on one of our drives: you had your sunglasses on and were singing so softly to the lyrics of some song on the radio. The sun felt so good on my skin. I kept telling you to find somewhere for us to sit and swallow the sun rays. You nodded your head and your mouth barely opened while you sang. Your hat was sideways on your head, and in that moment, I was so in love with you. 
A tear drop trickled down my cheek, reminding me that what we had was not mine anymore and I had to let you go so you could go make someone as happy as you made me. Four years you were mine and I was yours, and now all I have left are endless memories and this one last picture of you. You weren’t even mad that day when we were driving and I screamed “squirrel,” which made you swerve our car off of the road, into a ditch and made our tire flat. I told you we would laugh about it later, and laugh about it later we did. I got my sun rays that day, waiting for the nice tow man from AAA to get us out of the ditch. We lay in the cool grass and we talked and the sun kissed our skin; you were telling me about how this better not ruin your perfect driving record and you laughed at my desire to save all animals. 

That is when we were happy. Now we haven’t spoken in two days, and every time my phone vibrates my heart skips a beat, thinking it is you, hoping I will see your name on my phone. And it never is. I slid your picture in my back pocket replaying the conversation in my head that ended to the story of us. 
“Four years and all I want is a marriage proposal, and four years and all you want to do is travel.”
“Yes, I want to see the world and see new things and meet new people. Hell, I would settle with a tour of the US. You have the job, the car, the condo, now you want a family. And you know I am not ready for that, not now I am not.”
“If I wait around here for you to live your dreams, I am going to miss out on mine. Can’t we do what normal couples do, get married, have a family, retire and then travel?”
“I don’t want to be 68, on a road trip stopping every 30 minutes to go pee. I want to do it now, while I am young and don’t have arthritis in my hips and can make love to you under the moon in the desert and wish on stars with you under the black sky listening to the waves. My uterus isn’t going anywhere. I just want to do this thing right now, then we will come back and make as many babies as you want.”
“I know it won’t happen that way. We will get back and something else will come up, and then something else will come up; and you will want to go to Alaska to save the whales and plant a tree in California and I’ll be chasing after you, waiting for you to say yes and wear that ring and be my wife. I am done waiting for it. Every time I bring it up, you change the subject. I am going to go stay with my dad for a few days and that will give me time to get my stuff packed up.”
My heart shattered that day, the day those words fell out of your mouth. We had our fights; we had our moments like for that month when all we did was fight. But somehow I knew this was going to blow over like it always did. I was never more wrong in my life. 
And now here I am in the empty condo, in the home that was ours, that is now a vacant structure that used to house our laughter, our smiles, our own version of “honey I’m home,” now homed stacks of boxes which held my stuff.  My heart ached for you more than ever. I found a cute little two bedroom near the river and you are still with your dad in the city. We really are only 10 miles from each other, but we might as well be in different countries.  
I sauntered into the kitchen, the one room that wasn’t fully packed. You divided our flatware that we collected over the past years, you divided the fiesta ware, the divided the coffee cups. Any appliance we brought to the house, we took with us, and anything we bought together was given or surrendered. You have a real job that requires you to show up to an office, my writing and photography job not so much. I kind of wish you had a lax job so you could be the one packing memories and coffee cups with pictures of us kissing and the her and her shot glass set I bought you for your 21st birthday. I got to see you intoxicated for the first time that night, and I watched you stumble down the stairs into the bedroom we shared at your dad’s house, and I rubbed your back as you heaved the contents of your stomach into the toilet that morning. You heaved and I smiled knowing that I could listen to you purging or singing me ridiculous love songs from the early 80s while your clumsy intoxicated body rubbed against mine for the rest of my life. 
“We can build this thing together, stand here strong forever, nothings gonna stop us now” you yelled in my ear while you pulled me into you on the dance floor. Your intoxication level was high, and I could tell by the way your sloppy hands moved all over my body, making sure I was meshed into you. That song yelled through the speakers of the bar and I couldn’t help but smile. We were together a few months when you turned 21 and I was on my pink cloud dancing with you and the drag queens to Jefferson Starship. That pink cloud stayed around for a while, even when we had our first fight; we were trying the idea of being committed and started doing laundry together. This made is what committed couples do, I thought, they had coffee and did laundry together. Nine months into the relationship, you and I were sitting together in the Laundromat, drinking out gas station coffee, bickering about sorting colors, whites and darks. We threw all of the jeans in the washer, we both agreed on that. It took about 15 minutes to realize that I didn’t have my phone in my pockets. I ran outside, in the rain to my car, tore the car apart; you were in the Laundromat pulling clothes out of the basket. I ran back into the Laundromat and we both looked at the washer that was rinsing at this point. My phone was in my jeans pocket, that was in washer, and so the fight began. 
“How can you not have your phone on your person at all times? If you kept it in one of your 300 bags you have, you phone wouldn’t be swimming with your Levi’s.”
“We came home last night, exhausted after the movie. I dropped my pants, phone was in pants, picked up pants next morning, put them in a basket and took the pants to the Laundromat. When I am with you, I don’t think to check to my phone, it is only when we aren’t together when my phone isn’t glued to me, so you should be happy.”
“Be happy that your phone is going through the spin cycle? I know you can’t afford a new phone, which means I have to buy you a new one because I’m the one with the real job.”
I just glared at you, curled my freshly glossed lips and glared at you. I didn’t speak to you the rest of the time while we were in the Laundromat; I opened the washer and fished out my jeans, my phone and my soaking wet pride. Threw my jeans in the dryer, left yours in the washer, and sat on the bunch with my dead phone in hand, and let the tears trickle down my face. I felt your arm slide around me, and you kissed the top of my hand. That is when you took my hand and wrote on the back of my hand with your finger a 1 and 4 and a 3. I was still mad and didn’t look up at you. And you said, “1 letter 4 letters 3 letters, I love you.” That was the first time you said I love you, in the middle of a Laundromat, with me holding my dead phone and mascara running down my face. We were both laughing after that, and I did get a new phone that day. And every time after that we did laundry, you made me leave my phone at home on the kitchen counter near the toaster that was in a box somewhere. 
That spot was now empty, there was no toaster and I held my phone in my hand; it is a much newer version of the one you got me that day, but the same phone. Hot tears ran down my face, burning my eyes, splashing on the counter before my hand could catch them. I just couldn’t believe that after 4 years, you and I, were over. I would have married you, in all honestly, I was ready to marry you, I just didn’t want to get married so young. Whatever the five stages of grief, do they apply to relationships as well? Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. All but acceptance, I can’t accept this yet. I still think you are going to call me, or show up at the door with those silly fake flowers because the real ones make me sneeze, or just text me a “hey babe…i love you...how are you.” I would take anything at this point. I would call you just to hear you breathe like I did every night before asleep. I would fall asleep counting your breaths as you slipped into your drug induced sleep: I would make up to 50 and I would fall asleep. These past 36 hours, I haven’t slept very much. Here or there on the couch, or on the love seat, in the recliner, on the floor. I couldn’t lay in bed that was like sleeping on broken glass, every movement I made me think of you and the love we had and the love we made. I looked at my phone plugged in, lying on the counter. I sighed and so badly wanted to call you. How do you go from speaking almost every moment out of the day to 36 hours without speaking at all? I wondered if you were as tore up as I am, or if you were with you barrage of women that always seem to flock to you. Your charming good looks made sure that no single lesbian didn’t walk by you and give you a second glance. I stood in the kitchen looking in the backyard, to the duck pond, and remembered how you threw such a fit about needing to live near the duck pond because your dad and you always fed the ducks and you wanted to feed the ducks with your son, or daughter. We moved in and you had plans on where we were going to put up the swing set and how that huge oak tree will provide perfect shade for a baby swing. And I thought how I could transform the basement into a studio; you were planning the nursery and I wanted an art studio so I could pull my easel out of storage and put my writing desk in the corner near the big sliding glass door. I made these plans, while you were planning what color we would paint the second bedroom. I should have known then this was going to happen. You wanted a family you never had and I wanted a career in what I loved doing. And neither of us were willing to bend to let the other get what they wanted. My phone vibrated, it made my heart skip a beat when I looked down and saw it was my mom. I rolled my eyes and answered.
“Hi mom, yeah I’m ok. No mom I haven’t been crying, I have the windows open and my allergies are acting up. I know mom, what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger and yeah your right a walk might be good for me. Yeah I am almost all packed up. I am finishing up the kitchen. I’ll be done in like 2 hours and then I’ll need you to come get me to get the truck and I’ll call the boys to come and help me move everything to my new place. Yeah mom, I love you too.” 
My mom was never this cool about you, or the idea of you and me. Coming from a wealthy family, she had a certain image to uphold and having a lesbian daughter wasn’t one of them. It took two years of the fact that you were not going anywhere and she finally realized that if she didn’t come to terms with me being gay then she was going to lose her only daughter. I never become that stealthy lawyer that her and my father wanted me to be, but once my mother found out that my dad was having an extramarital affair with his secretary, his assistant and the house cleaner, I guess you can say that my mom loosened up a bit. She is a cut throat, no nonsense kind of gal who doesn’t have time to dwell over broken marriages or relationships. Just because she came up from their divorce a millionaire and smiling, she is under the impression that no relationship is worth getting upset over. She told my brother, 1 of the 5 of them, that I was being a big baby, that I needed to get a good power suit and join her law firm, get some power back into my life and that will make me feel lots better. My mother always have lacked compassion of any kind. If it wasn’t for my brothers and my best friend, I wouldn’t know if I would be standing right now. 
The first 24 hours I spent intoxicated, drunk, hung over the toilet. Jackie brought me more booze, and my brother Jim brought me food to keep my stomach lined. Both of them came back up in a few hours, but I tried to drink myself into a stupor, hoping maybe if I woke up the next day, this would all have been a bad dream and you would be in bed beside me, holding me, kissing my forehead, writing 143 on my arms. But that didn’t happen; I woke up with the hangover and started drinking more. I really couldn’t even tell you what was in these boxes because I was drunk when I packed them. 
I have been sober for the past 6 hours and when the kitchen is done, the Makers Mark will be in my stomach, making sure the pain is no more. I opened up a box and emptied the contents of the silverware drawer in the box; we split the flatware, you took half, I took half. That way we have something to eat with. Even though you are living with your dad, I assume that eventually you will be needing them. You will need them like I need you right now, and right now it is taking everything I have to not call you and ask you if you want the silver plated vase you won at bingo that one night, or maybe you want the rainbow shot glasses, maybe you want the other HER shot glass. I couldn’t think of a reason that was good enough to call you, I had a million excuses that I needed to hear your voice, but my mother is right, I can get through this and the booze and not talking to you will definitely help. Jackie is coming over after work to help me move boxes and the boys will move everything from point A to point B. At that time, I will be at point B pouring myself a large glass of I don’t give a shit, and drink myself into oblivion. My phone buzzed again in my pocket. I jumped again and there was your name, a text message from you. I held my phone in my hand and looked at it: I wondered what it said, I didn’t know want to know what it said, I wanted someone else to read it for me because right now my stomach was trying out for the US gymnastics team. 
“Hope you’re ok, this is killing me, let me know when you get settled, maybe we can have a drink.”
Those 20 words infiltrated my brain and almost made me hopeful. I stood there and looked at those 20 words and how nice it was to see your name in my phone again. 
It was Pittsburgh Pride, 2009, and I saw you filling out one of the marriage equality petitions. You had on khaki shorts, a gray t-shirt, your hair was in a Mohawk, and you had on brand new Chuck Taylor’s. I probably stood there and stared at you for a good 5 minutes because you took off your sunglasses and looked at me. I instantly smiled and giggled a little bit. I saw you smile, and on that afternoon in July, the sky was a light blue, not a cloud in sight, sweat accumulated all over me and I swear I fell in love with you. One smile and I knew I was going to kiss you, at some point in my life, I was going to kiss you. I walked over to you, still smiling, I could see you grinning as your pen eagerly filled out your name and phone number. 
“Hi,” I said, smiled the biggest smile and looked up at you. Your green eyes met mine and my knees fell week, my stomach filled with tingles. You picked up my hand and wrote on my hand 412-339-6503 with the pen you were using.
“Hi,” you said, and smiled. “You should call me, text me, call me and text me, send me smoke signals or Morse code. I will respond no matter what.” 
Air escaped my lungs and I was unable to breathe, I was unable to move. You literally took my breath away the moment we exchanged those words. I nodded and smiled more. 
“Do you want mine, or are you going to wait for me to call you?” 
“I don’t want yours, I’ll wait for you to call me.”
“And what if I don’t call you?”
“You will.”
And with that, you smiled at me one more time, put your sunglasses back on and walked away. 
I didn’t even get your name, but numbers on my hand. What was I waiting for? I reached into my purse with one hand, trying not to smudge the ink on my already sweaty left hand. One smudge and your number will be gone forever. I gripped my phone in my hand, entered your number, and sent a text of “WOW” Within 30 seconds I got a response.
“I knew you would text me. Meet me at 8 tonight at Tuscany Café, my name is Leeah, but call me Lee.” 
“I am Camille, but call me Cam, actually you can call me anything you would like” I giggled as I typed that, rolled my eyes at my house. 
My skin was painted pink from standing in the run rays for so long. I decided I needed a drink and some shade. 
That day I put you in my phone under Lee and you were in every new phone I purchased. Every time we meet for a drink, we usually end up naked or drunk or both, now I would settle for just seeing your green eyes. 
I then collapsed on the floor and lost it. The tears poured down my face, burning my cheeks. Heavy sobs escaped my mouth. I wanted nothing more than for you to walk in the door, wrap your arms around me and hold me until the tears stopped coming down my face. 
Night was falling. The sky was splashed with an array of blues, pinks and oranges; the sun was swooning the clouds as it said its farewells. The first night in my new home was going to pose a problem. Jackie would be home in 2 days from her vacation in Mexico. She was studying rare plant types and how they adapt to climates other than their native ones. And I didn’t really care to talk to anyone else: we were all mutual friends. You knew him, who knew me, and I was friends with her, who became friends with you. Jackie was my go to gal. She has been my best friend, since we were 12.
I did what any heartbroken girl would do: I poured myself a glass of wine, and put on sad sappy love songs that would only make me think of you. Pouring boiling water on a burn, the wine will help to ease the pain. The merlot colored the glass red. I reasoned with it, begging for a release, begging for sleep. I grabbed the bottle, and my glass, turned up Adele and laid myself on the couch. I read the words to me over and over again. This has been the longest time we have been apart since we moved in together. We lived with your parents until we both got on our feet. You were 20, I was 26, and for some reason the age difference never bothered me because you acted nothing like a typical college minded party college girl. Sans the night you got drunk on your 21st birthday was the only time you really ever acted your age. And I loved that about you. I put the glass to my lips and slammed the wine, sucking it down as if I haven’t had a drink in 3 days. I poured myself another glass, listening to Adele singing about finding someone like you. And I don’t even know if I want to find someone like you because I like the original so much. Anyone like you would be a fraud. I made another glass of merlot disappear and wondered why I even bothered drinking from a glass, the bottle just seemed so much more effective. My bed was in the corner, propped up against the frame, I might need to buy a new bed because I’m convinced your smell is imbedded in the fibers of the mattress and if I have to fall asleep every night smelling you, without you being there, someone might as well commit me. 
The merlot quickly traded places with the bottle and my stomach and my head was unclear, my knees were weak and I had an overwhelming sense of numbness. Adele was still singing to me as I finished the bottle of wine. I lay down on the couch, hugging on the bottle, my alcohol filled body was heavy and warm, which made sleep come easier than it ever has. 
I dreamt of you that night; not really full dreams, but pieces of our relationship played like a slideshow: moments of us that made up my past four years. Moments when you and I were so in love, moments when we were laughing. I saw us holding each other, watching a movie, I was crying and I saw the tears slithering down your face, we were always so happy and my dreams were nothing different. I woke up at 3:20 with a horrible headache, I was freezing and holding a bottle of wine. 
I turned the heat all of the way up, walked to my phone to see what I missed. I had to blink a few times to see the massive amount of text messages from friends, wishing me well, telling me if I need anything, to let them know, good luck in your new place. I saw Lee on the one. I read hers last. “Cam, I miss you, call me.”
I got a class of cold water, put a sweatshirt on, and dug through my box for a pair of sweat pants and my fuzzy slipper boots. I sat down on the couch, wrapped a blanket around me and dialed your number. It rang a few times.
“Hello?”
“Who is this?”
“Who is this?”
“I am Cam, who the hell are you? And where is Lee? Why are you answering her phone?”
“Ohh you’re Cam. Lee is in the shower. “
“Yes I am Cam, who in the hell are you?”
“I am Brit. Sorry to hear about you and Lee.”
My face was burning with anger, my stomach was churning. I wanted to throw up, or drink more.
“Should I tell Lee you called?”
The tears were welling up in my eyes. I wanted to scream; instead I just hung up the phone, laid down on the couch and cried as hard as I ever have in my life. Within 5 minutes, my phone buzzed, and buzzed, it was Lee. Slide to answer it said.
I choked back the tears, sighed.
“Hi,” she said.
“Who in the fuck is Brit? Why was she answering your phone? Why were you in the shower?”
There was a long silence, and I knew I didn’t want to know the answer to any of those questions. 
I went out, I needed to get away. I had too much to drink, she offered me ride home.
I started sobbing out loud, I couldn’t hold it in. It burst out of me. Heaving, my heart was pounding inside of my chest. 
“I’m sorry, Cam, I didn’t, I wasn’t. I didn’t think you were going to call me.”
I could hear her starting to get upset, I could hear it in her voice. I sat there with the tears pouring down my face.
“Four years, Lee. Four fucking years.”
I hung up, grabbed my pillow, pulled it tightly over my face and screamed inside of the cotton; screamed so loud, over and over again. I screamed until I couldn’t breathe anymore. Gasping for breath, my eyes ached from crying, my chest hurt, my throat was dry. 
You got drunk and slept with some random stranger 3 days after we broke up. You slept with someone else 3 days after we broke up because you got drunk to numb the pain and slept with someone else. I kept saying this out loud, over and over again, hoping it would make sense if I said it enough. Nothing made sense. I heard my phone vibrating, you were calling me. You were the last person I wanted to talk to right now. You kept calling, over and over again. I turned my phone off, buried my face into the pillow and cried more until I ran out of tears. The more I said it, the less it made sense. My heart was beyond shattered, it was pureed: you ripped it out, threw it in a blender and pureed it. I felt like mush; I felt inhuman. 3 days after being broken up from our 4 year relationship, you slept with someone else. I can barely breathe knowing we aren’t together anymore and you are fucking someone else in your new bed. My head was a jet propeller of thoughts, spinning fast, over and over again. Questioning the past 4 years: if you really loved me, what I meant to you, if you really loved me. How do you want to marry someone and then 3 days after breaking up with someone you sleep with someone else coming off a 4 year relationship?
I held my phone in my hand, wanting to turn it on, wanting to call you, wanting to scream at you, wanting to throw angry words at you. I want you to know how much you’re hurting me right now. I look at my phone, grab my pillow, the tears start flowing freely, as I yell “fuck” straight into the fibers of the pillow, muffling the sound as best as they could given the circumstances. You were my life, you were my everything, I had our life planned out. We wanted different things out of life: you wanted a baby, I wanted to travel and write and that is why we ended; that is why I am here on my couch, crying, hysterical, and you have the audacity to sleep with someone else, 3 days after our 4 year relationship ended. This I could not fathom. 
 I laid there until the sobs ceased, until the tears stopped flowing and I finally fell asleep. The sun light crept through the blinds and made its way to my face; it felt warm and woke me up suddenly. I sat up, and sighed. I rubbed my eyes, they were sore and puffy. I drudged my way to the bathroom, took some Tylenol for my aching head, and started unpacking boxes to find my coffee maker. I felt like I have been punched in the stomach with a brick. Every muscle ached, my ribs felt broken, most of all, I couldn’t ignore the hurt that was buried down deep inside of my soul. It was raw and stinging, a sharp pain that seemed to get worse with every breath I inhaled and exhaled. I reached into the box, pulled out the coffee maker, placed it on the black tile counter top, and plugged it in. The kitchen filled up with a mocha aroma; I sighed and realized that my phone has been off this entire time. I turned my phone on, letting it boot up, I made myself a cup of coffee. My stomach grumbled, demanded food. I drowned the demands with coffee, as my phone started to vibrate, requiring my attention. 13 voicemails, and 20 some text messages. That ache returned to my chest, like a serrated knife twisting deeper inside of me, pulling at my nerves, scrapping at my heart muscle. My breathing increased as I read those messages from Lee. 
“I’m sorry, please forgive me, it won’t happen again. I didn’t know what else to do. I was drunk, we were broken up. I didn’t think it would matter. I didn’t want to hurt you, I’m sorry I hurt you, please call me, please call me, Cam I love you, please call me.” I deleted all of the voicemails, I didn’t want to listen to them. 
Jackie would be home tomorrow, that should give me enough of time to get this place together. I might be a mess, but my house will look fantastic. I started unpacking box after box, ignoring the constant vibrations from my phone, ignoring you and your desire to get ahold of me: after what you did, I didn’t want to talk to you. I was picking up the pieces of my life out of boxes and arranging them in such a way that it almost felt like home. Almost. I knew what it was missing and I knew it wouldn’t never be home again, so I had to make it my own home, without the biggest piece.  The hours slipped by, time was melting away, pot and after pot of coffee, my stomach grumbled. I was on a mission to at least have one aspect of my life in order. As the boxes started to empty, I collected things that I found which reminded me of you. Ticket stubs I have saved from our very first few dates, receipts from restaurants, train passes when we rode around the city all day, taking pictures. These were little pieces of the puzzle that made up the whole picture of you and me. I felt as if someone ripped that picture in half, and I’m left there standing alone, confused and clueless as to what my next move was going to be. The box of us started filling at a rapid rate, my heart was beating as fast as it was filling up. I wonder if I am ever going to be able to love again. 4 years is a long time to be in love with someone.  I feel like I will have to train my heart to beat again, and beat only for me. Maybe I will grow a new one, a fresh one since mine is so badly damaged. I don’t understand how it is still beating, how it is still able to pump blood into the other parts of my body. I feel like giving up, I want to lay in bed for at least a few days. I want to drink wine, drown my sadness in alcohol until I am completely numb. My house was coming together; the kitchen had things on the counter. My purple toaster and my red coffee maker matched perfectly with the black tile tops and the white cupboards were filled with mismatched plates, bowls and cups. My silverware was tucked neatly into their drawers, the pots and pans were matched, even the Tupperware had their own place.
 I was putting my shampoo and my body wash away when I heard a knock on the door and my entire body froze. My stomach churned with the thought of who it could be. She does know my address, she knows where I live, she wouldn’t be coming here to grovel and make amends. I looked at my phone as I made my way through my apartment to the front door. My heart pounding heavier with each step I made. 
I prepared a speech the other night, as to what I would say to her if she ever showed up, or if I ever ran into her. I knew what I would say and slam the door in her face. No way was she going to reel me back in with those green eyes and those luscious lips, and that smile that made me tingle from the inside out. I looked through the peep hole and saw nothing but a large bouquet of flowers. “Fuck,” I said under my breath. I looked in the mirror that I hung beside the door, I heard another knocking as I opened the door.
“Daddy! What are you doing here?”
“I thought I would stop by and see if my little pumpkin needed anything, I brought these to liven the place up a little bit.”
He handed me over a 24 red and pink roses, in a beautiful crystal glass; tears filled my eyes as I hugged them. 
“Why don’t you come over here and give your ol’ dad a hug, instead of hugging those roses.”
I put them down on the table and wrapped my arms around the only man who I have ever loved. My dad smelled of some rich cologne, dressed impeccably like always. Wearing his black suit and red tie and his long over coat, he always looked like he was ready to take on the world. He was clean shaven like always without a single hair out of place on his balding head. It felt so nice to be held after the few days I’ve had. I wept harder the tighter he held me. 
“It’s ok love, let it out. I know it hurts, just let it out. I’m here to make it all better.”
When it came to compassion, my father was like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s eve; my mother was like stepping in an ice puddle in the middle of January. 
“Daddy, I don’t know what to do, what to say. She slept with someone else, and I am in pieces. I am lost. I feel like I’m walking around without my limbs. I want to drink the pain away. I want to be numb, I want to scream in her face.”
“Oh darling, I know. I remember when your mother and I left, she made it seem as if I was the one that made it end. She was just meant to be a single career woman, and after a while, I got ok with the idea. This is probably the most painful thing you will ever feel and if I could take your pain away, I would. How about we get out of here and go on a nice walk, maybe get some coffee at that place you like going to?”
“But Dad, I mean, I look like death wearing a cloak of flesh, I drank my weight in merlot last night, my hair, well my hair is a natural disaster”
“rinse some water on your face, put some of that goop in your hair and lets go, you are looking pale, some sunshine might do you some good.”
I grumbled, following my fathers orders, I dug through boxes of clothes finding an outfit suitable for the occasion. Jeans and a tshirt were my trade mark of outfits. It was easy, comfortable and that’s what I liked. I slipped my clothes off, that seemed to peel off my skin, I looked at myself in the mirror, and the sad person looking back at me. Eyes, so red, swollen, and blood shot. My hair was careless and all over the place. I leaned my head down in the sink, let the cool water trickle over my hot skin. It felt good, almost refreshing, washing away the salt stained skin. I smooshed some goop into my hair, grabbed my blazer, and looked at my dad.
“you clean up well for a broken hearted girl, coffee and a walk will make it all better, if not well, there is always ice cream” 
I rolled my eyes
“yes, then I can get even more chunky, eat myself into a oblivion, and be that woman you read about in the news that had to removed from her bath tub in a fire truck”
My dad just chuckled and rolled his eyes. He looked a little than the last time I saw him. His face, a few more wrinkles, his laugh lines in his eyes a little more pronounced. His blue eyes, were still the same. I could tell his job was wearing on him, he worked too much, too hard, needed to stay busy, worrying about his family and not worrying about himself. 
We exited my apartment building, he told his driver that we were walking and he would call him when he needed it. The perks of being a high powered laywer, the family man with the car and the house and the dog and the kids and the picket fence. He was bred for that kind of lifestyle, he grew up in that era of providing for his family, giving them everything they could need. Being there for them, mentally, emotionally, and financially. He was my saving grace, in so many aspects. Not just because of his check book. 
When I was into my early teens, I was very certain about 2 things, my parents marriage was falling apart and I was a lesbian. These conclusions came to me around the same time. One of my mothers fantastic counseling sessions, which led to her on the couch, crying, playing the part of the poor, neglected housewife, while my dad was out, having a blast, living his life, jet setting all over the country to represent his clients, which one of them was a major corporation. My dad would always look exhausted after one of those therapy sessions. I think at this point, he was just tired of my mom, of their marriage, of the sadness. During on of their sessions, I was in the waiting room, sitting in an oversized leather chair, it smelled like a funeral home, the carpet was brown, the walls were beige, classical music was floating out of the speakers hidden somewhere in the large fake fichus in the corner. While kneed deep in an article in Good Housekeeping about the pros and cons of crown molding, yelling in the parking lot sliced through the classical ambiance in the relaxing brown room. In stomps a girl around my age, her hair was bright blue, she had thick eyeliner on, her black combat boots were laced up to her skins, tight jeans hung to her body, holes exposing her pale white skin. 2 metal hoops hung from her lips, covered in bright red lipstick. 
“fucking moms, who needs them. She is with a new guy every week, fuck her, trying to tell me I cant walk around with holes in my jeans. Who in the fuck does she think she is?”
I looked around the room, seeing that her and I were the only ones in there, she was talking to me. I nodded, not knowing what to say.  She sat down. My eyes scanning over her, she was picking the black nail polish off of her nails, grumbling about her mother in the parking lot. 
“what a train wreck, I refuse to be like her when I grow up, fuck it, I am never growing up so I wont be given the oppurtuniy to be anything like her, when I am 18, I am graduating high school and getting the hell out of the shit hole fucked town. She gave birth to me, and she thinks she owns me? What a dumb cunt.”
I cleared my throat. Chuckled a little bit, and looked into the parking lot. Blonde frizzy hair, large round pink sunglasses covered most of her face, her lipstick smudged, she had every single item out of her purse, on the car hood, a cigarette was dangling from her lips. She had some kind of animal fur made into a coat that feel to her knee caps, black stiletto heels peeking from the bottom of her coat.  my attention was then drawn back the blue haired beauty that sat almost right next to me, I felt a flutter in the pit of my stomach, almost like a butterfly flapping its wings over every cell inside of me. I don’t know who this girl was, but the more she talked, the more angry she became, the more I knew I was in love with her. Her blue hair and red lips, lit up the room, someone flashing a light in a dark cave. The colors she wore, contrasted the brown hues and tones that decorated the waiting room. I didn’t even know this girl, and I wanted to kiss her, the get her red lipstick on my lips, I wondered what the metal in her lips would feel like against mine, against other parts of my body. I wanted to feel her finger nails digging into my skin, I wanted the paint to chip off because she was holding on to my so tightly.
“look at her out there, strung out, looking for her fucking lighter, her fucking cigarette is already lit, she needs to OD, that would just solve it all.”
I looked at the angry beautiful girl next to me, and her sad fur covered mother in the parking lot looking for something in her luggage sized purse. My life seemed almost normal, going to some private school, uniform wearing, my mother could be the Steppford wife of the year, 14th year in a row. My blue haired love of my life, took off her thick leather jacket, revealing 2 over sides bandages covering her wrists and arms. She looked down and then and looked at me, crossing her arms over her chest. 
“if you had to live with that stupid, junky bitch, you would have tried to kill yourself too, a lady Bic with the flowers on the handle, a dollar store razor I busted open, got the razor out and started slicing. She didn’t think I would do it. Fuck her. I will keep doing it until I get it right. She will be sorry when she doesn’t have a daughter anymore.”
I was looking at her, and her bandages, and I wanted to go over to her and tell her it was going to be ok, I wanted her to rest her head on my shoulder, so I could wrap my arm around her, glance down her shirt, to her large breasts, shoved inside of that tight shirt. I wanted to comfort her, with my words, my mouth, I wanted to make her all better. 
She looked over at me, I looked up at her, for the first time in my life, words were just not coming out of my mouth, the refused to come to me, I wanted to tell her, lets run away together, ill steal my moms credit cards, I will save you from that junky.
“you look pretty normal, what are you doing in a head doctors office?”
I had to force the words out of my mouth, pull them from my throat
“my mom is going through some crisis, my dad works all of the time, traveling the country, saving the good guys from jail, my mom is still yet unsatisfied with the Benz in the garage and the huge rocks on her fingers and dangling from your neck”
She looked at me, her bright blue eyes, matching her bright blue spiked hair, I wanted her to say something, to say anything.
“fucking parents, who in the fuck needs them, pieces of shit is what they are. Useless pieces of shit. My mother should have aborted me”
The doctors door opened, Camie, please come in, the doctor spoke in his NPR radio voice. I just sat, there, looking at the blue eyed wonder. I wanted to be defiant for the first time in my life, I wanted to tell the doctor to shove his wood carved fertility statues up his ass, take this girl in my arms, walk out and never look back.
“Cammie! Get in here now!” my mother shouted from inside the room. 
I looked at the beautiful girl as she spoke to me
“maybe ill see you next week? If my mother can get her fucking shit together”
I smiled so hard, getting up, letting everything in my lap, fall to the floor, still looking at her, fumbling around with the magazines.
“yeah, I hope so”
I walked into the room, not even caring what was going, or the news of my parents imminent  end looming in the distance. The doctor closed to door behind me, losing all sight with the blue hair, I sat down in another large leather chair, looked at my mom and dad, sighing
“I am a lesbian”
My mother left out a wail, that was synominous with a mother that just found out her child was dead
Everyone was looking at her, she started crying, grabbing the box of tissues from the large desk in front of her.
“youre a lesbian? How do you even know what a lesbian is? You are 14 years old, you don’t know these things yet. You are too young to know what you want” 
my mother sniffed back more tears, sobbing, harder into her hands. 
“what did I do, where did I go wrong? Its all my fault”
Her theatrics should have been awarded with an Emmy award. I looked over my dad, looking really uncomfortable in the chair.
“well, I mean, if that’s what you want to be, I will love you no matter what, you know this pumpkin”
I smiled at my dad, then we both looked at my therapist, scratching his chin, looking perplexed at my mother, who again, let out another wail.
“the adolecent years, is the ones where you figure out who you are, and what you like. There is nothing wrong with your decision Cammie. I mean some of us know these things when we are children, its not something you wake up and decide to be one day, but something you have always known, something that develops over time, your sexuality is never something…”
“ohhhhhh what did I do? What did I do to deserve this? What will the people at the country club think? What will I tell the ladies in my book club. I will never have grandchildren, I will never be a grammy, never be a nana, you are taking this away from me, what will I tell everyone when you arent walking down the isle with a handsome man? That you are shacked up, with another girl? Ohhhh my life is over”
She cried, sobbing harder, blowing her nose loud, like a trumpet. 
“you have the best education, you go to a private school, you play on the softball team, you are a perfect 4.0 student, I don’t understand how you can be gay” 
I looked over at my dad, whose hand was over his face, I could see a smile, creeping out from the sides of his hand, pretending to cough, the therapist, looked at us. The only noise in the entire room, was the sound of my mothers cries, pulling tissue after tissue from the box. Dabbing her eyes, crying for the grandchildren she will never have. The poor woman, I almost felt sorry for her. 
My dad has always been that way, the smile behind the covered mouth.
I slid my arm through my fathers, as we descended the street, resting my head on his shoulder, as we walked down the street. The crisp November air, bit at my cheeks, it felt good against my face and my tired eyes. The sky above me was gray, spotted with dull puffy clouds, seconds away from snowing or raining. We walked the 5 blocks to the coffee shop, my dad held me a little tighter, for the moment, I felt like I was going to be ok, that I was going to make it. I may not feel better now, but I will feel better eventually. 
The BuzzComb was at the corner of the street, cars congesting the streets, the cross walk was full of random strangers, my heart felt heavy in my chest. The heat from the coffee shop, blasted my reddened cheeks as we walked in, the delicious smell of fresh ground beans made me sigh in comfort. I ordered my Venti caramel macchiato, with extra expresso. 
Chuckling my father said, “do they even make regular coffee? No flavoring, no special names? What happened to just a large cup of black coffee? I don’t know what a Kona blend is. Blonde coffee?  Just a plain old cup of black coffee. That is all I want.”
Walking to the sugar station, grabbing my yellow sugar packets, smelling the cofee waft up from my cup, my father still arguing with the hipster barista who was trying to tell him about fair trade coffee and he just kept on asking a plain old cup of coffee that you could get at Coffee Joes in the 1950s. I heard the bell of the shop ding, stirring in my creamer and artificial sweetener. And there she was, standing at the door, folding her sunglasses into her pocket, she hasn’t seen me yet. My heart ached for her, I wanted to run up to her, wrap my arms around her, tell her how much I loved her, tell her how badly I needed her, tell her how sorry I was and that I would have 15 kids for her, if she would just come back. Her gaze met mine, and my stomach fell into my shoes, my eyes were welling up with the hottest of tears. Lees brown hair was spiked up, messy but looked good, her brown eyes looked sad and tired, I wanted to kiss her lips that were always ready to meet mine. She put her hands into her pockets, and slowly made her way over to me. Her jeans were tight, hugging her lower body in all of the right places, her black pea coat was buttoned up all of the way, a popped collar made her granite gauges stick out. 
“can you believe there are over 230 different kinds of coffee, and that is just what this shop offers, they will order whatever blend or flavor you want, and ship it to your house”
My dad walking over to me, breaking my staring contest with Leah, I slipped my arm through his.
“daddy lets go home”
I walked out with my dad, the cold air smacking me in the face, I looked back and Leah was at the door, watching me, I looked back her, and sighed. It has been 5 days, since we last spoke, 5 days and all I wanted to do was to hold her tight, 5 days and I think my heart broke a little bit more. 

 

I haven’t had much time for heart break over the years. I guess I have always been to busy to do anything but please my parents and do well in school. There was perfect time for rebellion and adventures, I just took the easy way out. Now into my mid 20s, I am feeling the urge to run wild, to let my metaphorical hair down, to throw my hands in the air and scream fuck it, while I run around naked in a strangers backyard, dancing in their sprinkler system. My soul was hungry for something other than what it was used to. I didn’t have a girlfriend anymore, my lease was on a month to month basis, my job consisted of taking photographs of landscapes and cute babies. I wasn’t connected to anything anymore. I could pick up now, leave, and never look back. I could get a piece of shit car, and drive, drive far away from the city, drive far away from the life I used to know with her. Drive far away from her, to make sure I never have to see her again. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, I wanted the constant throb in my chest to stop. Maybe a night out, on my own, a small adventure, something to get me started.
 I wish I could call my mother, go to her house, sit on her couch and cry. Let the tears run freely, all over my face, have her console me, have her hold me, make me pie and cake, eat ice cream and watch movies with a strong female lead, that wins in the end, she will get the boy, and live happily ever. I laughed at myself, digging through my overflowing laundry baskets, pulling out my favorite black button down, laying it on my bed. I stripped down, walking into my single shower stall. 
Learning to function without someone who you have lived with for several years, who has been such a large part of your life, you kind of forget how to do things by yourself. A simple task of doing laundry, taking a shower, folding towels, which was always so much fun, with your partner, has no lost it luster and it becomes and every day thing. A shower would always lead to Leah’s hands in my hair, helping me shampoo, her soapy hands trailing down and over my wet naked body. My being self conscious of my curves, the rolls, she would caress would such a delicate manor that I would feel as if I was the most beautiful girl in the world. She would make me feel desirable. Her hands, sliding all over my wet skin, her mouth on my lips, tasting me, two hours later, I would be back in the shower, cleaning the sweat off of my skin. And now I stand here, alone in the single stall shower, shampooing my own hair, shaving my own legs, going to my empty bed. The quiet of the house was maddening, there was no laughing, no yelling from room to room or floor to floor, no shouting for more toilet paper or that I needed a tampon. None of that. It was silent, which made the racing thoughts in my head sound so much louder. Standing on the plush carpet in my bedroom, surrounded by boxes, laundry baskets,  the contents of my life were stacked in an organized pattern, while the chaos inside ran rampant. I toweled the water off of me, fluffing my hair, looking at myself in the mirror, all aboard the train wreck express. 
I want to wrap your legs around my head and wear you like a crown, she said to me. My cheeks turned red, like the cherry that sat in the bottom of my glass. I smiled and looked at her. I knew it was the massive amounts of alcohol flowing through her blood stream making her say this to me. Though I only met her hours before, we became close friends as we sat on the uncomfortable bar stools. The wood creaked under my weight, as I slid my jello like limbs closer to her. I smiled more, my face was hot, due to the alcohol consumption and the heat from the bar. I felt almost suffocated by the body heat radiating from the room. Music was bumping through the speakers, at Club 5801. I sucked the rest of my drink out of my straw, wondering if this woman knew how old I was, wondering if she was really paying attention to what I was saying, or was she merely focused on my cleavage that hung out of my tight black button down. 
So far this woman was doing rather well at charming my clothes off. I felt her hand on my thigh and she squeezed, I could feel her strength in her grip. This made me giggle like I was 14 years old.  The bartender came around, and she hollered over the music, two more please, make them extra strong. As if I needed any more of this intoxicating substance, if she was under the impression that I had to be drunk to sleep with women, she was surely mistaken. She slid closer to me, as we continued our conversation. I could see her eyes trail downward every so often, towards the buttons of my shirt. She leaned her head down and said to me, I bet I could chew those off in the matter of seconds. I smiled, laughed and shook my head. This woman was relentless. I am sure she was at least fifteen years my senior, and probably one of the oldest women in the bar. At this moment, I did not care. 
The bartender gave us our drinks, pink and orange swirled together in the ice cold glass. The red straw stuck out of the drink, which met my lips. It was cold and delicious and I sucked it down without thinking twice. The woman grinned and said, I am jealous of that straw, being so close to your lips. 
Her advances of her hands on my thighs and seeing her in that polo shirt, with the popped collar, the blue of the shirt, matched the blue of her eyes. She was the blonde hair, blue eyed version of Lead. Playing hard to get was not something I was good at doing, or really wanted to be good at doing. My slurred words fell out of my mouth
“you wanna get out of here?” 
She smiled, took my hand and led me out of the bar. The cool Pittsburgh fall air kissed my red hot skin, sending chills down my body. Tonight was going to be a good night, and it only just started.  She was the first woman I have been with since Leah, making this number 4 for me, in my entire lesbian career. Not anything to brag about, but I knew she would fuck the pain away and I wouldn’t have to feel anything for at least a few hours. The city lights danced off of the river, as we walked hand and hand to my apartment. The sidewalks covered in red and yellow fallen leaves, crunching under my weight. She kept pulling me closer, nuzzling her warm face into my neck. Her lips colliding with exposed flesh, my judgment was severely impaired and all I could think was Leah, the smell of her cologne, how I could still taste it lingering on my lips. This woman would do for now, a nightly distraction, emotionless sex, no feelings involved. Just 2 women fucking the shit out of each other. I reasoned with myself the whole way to my door.  

 

 

 

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