And then. . .

Hemingway once said, " There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Until this week I think I only understood that quote figuratively.  It's Thursday, and I have revised 13 stories of my creative non-fiction novel/thesis. I have been bleeding all week. Yesterday I wrote for 12 hrs give or take, and when I went home, I felt as if I had just run a marathon.  I am not a runner.  This week I am bleeding through my finger tips, bleeding the words, I am to afraid to say, the feelings I didn't know were still there until they appeared on the page.  Before medicine evolved doctor's used to bleed the sick, they thought it healed them. I think right now, I am being bled by a phantom doctor who is trying to save my heart, by pulling these words from me, so that I may love without the tenuous fear of betrayal, and so that I may miss without feeling the weight of guilt curving and bending me until I am an unrecognizable figure, like ...

I have never lived with a man, (as I typed I wrote loved). He staying over, sleeping over at his place, you still have the drive home, the option of staying, more importantly, perhaps, the option of leaving. I hate sharing rides with people to an event, a party, a dinner, because the next few hours are dictated by their decisions. "You wanna go?" they ask, when you both know you wanna stay. "You wanna stay?" they ask, when you both know you wanna go. Given the option I will always meet people. "I'll meet you!" I say and make up an excuse as to why I have to do this. I no longer have that option. I cannot leave, to sit on my couch alone, scratching at places not allowed in public. Now, I live with a man, my husband. I live with a man who sits with me quietly as we watch T.V. I live with a man who helps me make dinner and also helps me clean up. I still take long baths until my fingers are pink prunes and he watches soccer while gaffing at the T.V. ...

Red lips, bright, distracting as her mouth moves. She laughs big, head thrown back, teeth shining whiter than they really are. She is uninhibited for a moment as she moves and talks without thinking. Swings her arm vodka cranberry in hand. It is the red lip, they give her power, the weight in her words as they tumble from glossy red lips onto the table bounce once and into your ear. A confidence which will be wiped away later.