Tuesday, September 30, 2025
Long Term - Chapter 1
"Hello." The woman at the front desk was about my age. She wore an old-fashioned braid and looked at her computer screen instead of at me. Her voice sounded drained, as if the excessive use of this greeting formula during the previous hours of her shift at the counter had cost her all energy.
Tuesday, July 1, 2025
The Messenger
Firfir protests sleepily as I push him off my stomach and fold back the two layers of blanket I'm buried under. He shakes his head, yawns, and hops off the sofa, his eyes sparkling in the dim light as he stretches and scratches his claws on the carpeted floor before vanishing toward the door.
Right. There was a knock at the door—the reason I woke up. I squint to find my warm flannel house shoes and hurry to slip my feet inside. It's almost dark in the living room, the light over the table off although I'm sure I switched it on earlier. Another blackout. The fireplace is barely giving light; the wood is too wet for a decent fire, and it took me half an hour to get it burning in the first place.
"Ma'am?" A low voice, muffled behind the door.
"Dawit?"
I hear the door handle creak. The door opens and when I turn my head, I see Firfir‘s tail slipping past two black feet clad in dusty sandals.
Sunday, March 23, 2025
Beverage Guy
Beverage Guy
Kay had specifically planned on not being nervous.
Well, here she was: a nervous mess. Introducing a new boyfriend to family was nerve-wracking in itself, but adding a disability into the mix took it to a whole new level.
"Is that her?" Seth pointed his chin towards the other end of the plaza. Kay followed his gaze and nodded. Her older sister was approaching the café in her usual brisk stride, high heels clacking. She was in business woman mode.
The knot in Kay's stomach tightened, and she wrapped her hands around Seth's slim upper arm, momentarily burying her face in his shoulder with a groan.
A kiss brushed the top of her head. "It's gonna be fine."
She looked up, meeting those dark deep eyes that always managed to calm her down. Those eyes that never failed. And just like that, her nervousness dissipated, transforming into something else: A sense of We. This was her man. Whoever had a problem with her relationship could go fuck themselves. Stella included. She craned her neck and placed a kiss on Seth's lips. "I love you", she whispered, then turned around to see her sister now just a few strides away from their table and seeking her gaze.
Kay stood up. "Hey you." Please don't fuck this up Sis. Please please please.
Kay could only hope that her sister would keep in mind what they had talked about on the phone."Is there anything I should know about… you know, dealing with him?" Stella had asked, and Kay had told her the one and only thing there was to know: "He's a regular person, Stel. Please don't treat him any differently."
"Hi Sis," Stella now offered a quick hug, then her eyes darted from Kay to Seth. They didn't linger any longer on him than a second. "Hi", she nervously gripped the strap of her handbag. "I'm Stella."
"Hey Stella. I'm Seth." As always with people who were being weird around him, he didn't bat an eye at her apparent discomfort. Instead, he gave her a genuine smile.
Stella stiffly shifted on her feet, and it was clear that she was feeling awkward about the impossibility of a handshake.
"We haven't ordered yet", Kay said to fill the silence, shoving the menu card across the table."Never been here before", Stella gladly went along with the small talk as she sat down. "Cute place." She picked up the menu card, studying it with just a little too much interest, apparently relieved to have something to focus on. "Oh, they have a nice tea selection", she murmured approvingly.
"The Genmaicha is really good", Seth remarked. "If you're into green tea."
Stella looked up distractedly. Or more like startled. As if the fact that he was taking part in the conversation surprised her. "I love that one", she responded with an uneasy smile, and Kay could see she was doing that thing many people did when talking to Seth: Keeping her gaze unnaturally fixated on his face, as if the rest of him was forbidden to look at.
Kay rolled her eyes to herself. This was something she herself had never done when she had first seen him post-injury. Quite the opposite actually, she hadn’t been able to stop staring. Granted, she and Seth hadn’t been strangers at that point. Far from that.
Friday, February 21, 2025
Fridays (m/m)
The First Friday
The clock strikes 5 pm, and the sleek lobby of VegaTech begins to fill with people. Most of them stare a bit, as they walk by me on their way to a well-deserved weekend. I’m an easy target to stare at, from the huge electric wheelchair to my habit of decorating it with pride flags. One of the men walking by gives me that furtive, out-of-the-corner-of-his-eye-once-over-look that I can clock as a certain kind of interest from a mile away. He’s cute enough, and usually, I’m always up to a flirt with a devotee, but today I ignore him. My sister Vanessa is now officially an hour late. That might not be a big deal for some people, but for me it’s a deal the size of the Louisiana Purchase.
Next to me, Steve is pacing. He’s a good guy and a great caregiver, but after a 12 hour shift stretching into a 13th hour, he’s just as annoyed as I am. His wife and kids are waiting back home, but I absolutely must not be left alone ever, for fear something could go wrong with my vent, and Steve will stick by my side until Vanessa is here to take his place. Among many other duties she has, it’s her job to take me to my weekly therapy appointment. I already missed it last week, and I’m still pissed off about it.
Steve points towards the elevators.
“Isn’t that dude over there on Nessy’s team?”
He’s right. A guy in cargo shorts and a dark blue VegaTech polo shirt, one of Vanessa’s fellow engineers, fresh out of the elevator, spots me hanging out by the reception desk and jogs over.
“Sorry, Toby! Nessy is still upstairs, the new manager just gave us a new deadline.”
Oh, yes, same as last week. Three months ago, the kind older gentleman who understood my sister’s time constraints as one of my carers was replaced by a jerk straight from company headquarters. Ever since my usually dependable sister has become flaky. I understand her worries, and of course, her cushy position at VegaTech is what keeps us afloat, but I also need to be at my appointment, or I’ll risk losing the very little function I have left as a c1/c2 quad.
That’s it. VegaTech likes to brag about their track record with inclusivity. It’s time to see what that’s worth. Using the sip-and-puff control, I turn my power chair around and make my way over to the reception desk.
“Hi, Kristy. Can you tell Mr. Gerber that Toby Burnett is here to see him?”
Friday, February 7, 2025
Let You In Again
The clerk’s fake smile doesn’t falter, but it’s still fake. I lean a little closer to the desk, gripping the edge. “You don’t understand. I can’t just sleep in my car. It’s freezing out there.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” His voice is syrupy, the kind that doesn’t actually mean sorry. “We’re fully booked. This storm caught a lot of people off guard.”
“Right, including me.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, and I feel bad for it instantly, but I’m exhausted, soaked, and the thought of sitting in my car all night makes my stomach twist. “There has to be something. A closet. A cot in the basement. I’ll take anything.”
The guy glances over my shoulder, probably hoping someone else will step up and distract me. No luck for him. The lobby is practically empty except for a guy passed out on one of the couches. The clerk’s fingers drum on the desk. “I’ve already told you—”
“Ellie?”
I freeze, grip tightening on the desk. That’s not possible. Not here. Slowly, I turn.
And there he is. Jack Baker. Ten years, and he’s still unmistakably Jack—sharp jawline, the same easy grin, even under the shadow of a soaked baseball cap. But what stops me, what shifts everything, is the sleek black wheelchair he’s sitting in. His hands rest on the push rims, his posture casual like he’s been here all along.
“Jack?” My voice wavers for half a second before I clamp it down. My brain is working overtime, trying to connect the dots. Last I knew, he was climbing mountains out west. Now he’s here, wheels glinting in the fluorescent light, grinning at me like we bumped into each other at the grocery store.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, rolling a little closer. The grin doesn’t falter. “Ellie Thompson, of all people. Small world, huh?”
Monday, February 3, 2025
TOWGA – Table of Contents
The One Who Got Away
Chapter 1: Deja Vu
Chapter 2: Six Years Earlier / The Moment
Chapter 3: Six Years Earlier / The P Word / Waving Hand Emoji
Chapter 4: Disability Etiquette / Six Years Earlier
Chapter 5: Cold Grip / Hot Potato / Five Years Earlier
Chapter 6: Exuses / Balancing
Chapter 7: The Body You Desire / Blocked / Four Years Earlier
Chapter 8: Any Random Idiot / Not A Pool Party
Chapter 9: Yeti Bastard
Chapter 10: Something In Between / Not Today
Chapter 11: Quad Architect / Forever
Chapter 12: No Such Manual / Girlfriend
Chapter 13: Spurred
Chapter 14: No Clue
Chapter 15: Here / Cuddling Logistics
Chapter 16 PT 1: Radical Concepts
Chapter 16 PT 2+3: Not A Footnote / The Elephant
Chapter 17: Beverage Guy
Chapter 18: The Look / Serious Tilt
Chapter 19: The Angle
Sunday, February 2, 2025
The One Who Got Away
Chapter 1: Déjà Vu
Twenty minutes too early. Of course. Not that Kay did it intentionally. It was simply that she always ended up early wherever she went. Others took it for a commendable quality; they assumed she was this reliable, highly disciplined person who would never make anyone wait.
In truth, it was just poor time management. For some people, that meant being notoriously late. With her, it was the opposite – being notoriously early. If you combined a poor sense of time with an ever looming panic to be late, that's what you got.
Kay steered the car into Mulberry Lane. She knew this neighborhood, because she sometimes drove through here on the way to the firm when traffic was bad. Slowing down, she scanned the houses and soon spotted the property in question. The driveway was already blocked by two cars, one of them a huge black van, and she ended up parking a few paces further down against the sidewalk.
She looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes. Kay sank deeper into her car seat and took out her iPad to check her email. She pulled up the one with the assignment details. Though one couldn't actually call that two-sentence message ‘detailed’.
"Assessment for remodeling after botched previous remodeling job", her boss had written. The clunky wording was typical for him; he was good at designing things, not at describing them.
This type of assignment was abundantly familiar to Kay. During the few months she had been working for Stettler & Ilk, half of her clients had been people who were unhappy with previous works done by other firms. It wasn’t exactly the kind of work that most architects associated with the highest prestige, but Kay liked it. She was fascinated with problem solving – the more complex the problem and the more intricate the solution, the better. It was one of the aspects that had initially drawn her to architecture and later to specializing in Design-build. As a general species, architects tended to be very theoretical in the way they approached projects. That wasn't Kay. She liked the practical, tangible side of her craft.
Ten minutes. She adjusted the rearview mirror to check her hair and make-up, tucking a couple of dark blond strands back into her ponytail and re-applying some sheer pink lipstick.
Five minutes. Kay looked at the two-story house in front of her again. Whatever kind of remodeling had been done here before had to be on the inside. There didn't seem to be any kind of annex, and the facade didn't look like it had been renovated recently. The only thing that looked newer than the rest of the house was the long teak ramp bypassing the three front steps. Maybe the remodeling had to do with accommodations for a physically disabled person.
The energetic woman greeting her at the door sure didn't appear to be disabled. She was maybe in her early sixties and looked perfectly healthy. Her handshake was firm.
"I'm Kay Martens from Stettler & Ilk.", Kay said, and the woman gave her a warm smile. "Cora Bell. Come on in."
"That's a beautiful home you have here", Kay remarked, stepping inside. "1920s?"
"That's exactly right", the other woman beamed approvingly, and Kay's gaze lingered on her face for a second, finding something oddly familiar about it. Even though she was positive she had never met the woman in her life. There was something about those features… Déjà vu, maybe? She cleared her throat. "Mr. Stettler mentioned you've had some work done to the house and now are not happy with the outcome?"
Cora Bell weighed her head. "Well, not exactly. The remodeling downstairs has turned out fine. The problem is the second floor.” She gestured towards the staircase. "Why don't I just show you."
Kay followed her up the stairs, while Mrs. Bell kept talking: "We had to move our study – or library, whatever you want to call it, up here, plus the contents of a whole hallway closet. And the space is just not… adequate."
She led Kay through one of the doors, and they stepped into, well, whatever it was supposed to be. Kay nodded. "I can see what you mean", she murmured, looking at the relatively small space filled up with bookshelves, an antique writing desk, an armchair and a huge cupboard – among other things.
"This used to be our elder son's room", Mrs. Bell explained, clasping her hands. "After he moved out, we kept it as a guest room for him." Her voice was sort of melancholy now. Had the son died? Or cut ties with his parents? In any case, this was apparently no longer a guest room.
Monday, August 14, 2023
Prompt: “If you tell anyone I cried during that movie, I’ll block you.”
Prompt: “If you tell anyone I cried during that movie, I’ll block you.”
When you’re never physically together, everything must be intentional.
I guess one could make the argument that intentionality should always matter and be present in all situations, but in my experience, it’s easy for that to fall by the wayside when things are, well, easy.
Sean and I have been friends for years. We met in an entomology lecture during our freshman year and ended up partners for the final project that was something like sixty-five percent of our final grade. The universe couldn’t have plopped two more different people together: me, with my chipped black nail polish, combat boots, and obsessive love of Sapphic literature, and Sean, who showed up to 8 a.m. lectures in a backwards Braves cap and Nike joggers, fresh-faced and somehow still managing to look clean-cut.
To look at us, you’d think we would never have worked. Yet here we are: fifteen years later, on complete opposite sides of the world, settling in to watch a movie together. A monthly ritual that we rarely miss.
Not that it’s been easy getting here.
“It Happened One Night or Hook?” He’s sharing his computer screen with me, and I can see him scrolling through options on Netflix.But neither of those are on the screen, so I’m not sure where they came from or if either of them is even available on Netflix.
I shake my head and tilt the screen of my laptop so I can see better. “Not like the Hook kind, but I am kind of in the mood for fantasy.”
He groans and keeps scrolling. Flicks past five or six options I definitely would’ve been fine with, like he’s holding out for something specific he can’t quite name. I try not to feel irritated. This movie night only happens once a month. Between time zones and work schedules and life, this – plus some scattered texts and the occasional spontaneous phone call – is about all the time we get with each other.
It annoys me more than I want to admit that we never pick the movie in advance. Sitting here in silence while he scrolls feels like a waste of precious, limited time…even though I know it’s not. It’s still together. And that’s what counts.
I didn’t always feel this way. Back when we were younger, time felt endless. There were entire afternoons we spent doing nothing: lounging around our apartments, walking across campus just to grab coffee, or laying out on the green until it got dark. We didn’t need a plan. Just proximity. Back then, showing up for each other wasn’t a choice; it just happened, almost by accident.
Maybe that’s because undergrad—and life, up to that point—was so easy for both of us. Neither of us had faced any real hardship or friction. And certainly nothing that ever got in the way of our friendship.
But then we graduated. Sean got a job out of state. I stayed behind and started grad school. We both liked to travel, and for a few years we made an effort—meeting up once or twice a year in whatever city sounded good, splitting hotel rooms, getting lost on purpose. Sometimes we managed to time things so we were both home for the holidays and could sneak in a catch-up lunch or walk around the old campus.
But those visits got fewer. Work got busier. He moved abroad. I moved apartments, changed jobs, changed routines. Travel started to feel more like a chore than a break. We were still close – I thought – but something shifted. Not all at once, and not because anything went wrong. Just...naturally. That’s how it happens, I guess. You blink, and suddenly all your friendships require effort.
Suddenly my small picture-in-picture view of Sean’s face, which until now had been furrowed in concentration, two little lines forming between his eyebrows like choosing our movie is the most serious thing he’s ever done, starts shaking and then tilts. Now I’ve been rotated ninety degrees to the right.
“Argh, fuck.” He reaches his arms and swipes at the empty air, and that’s when I realize his laptop has fallen just beyond his reach from the spasm in his legs. He tries again, this time rocking his shoulders like he’s building momentum, reaches his arms out again, and lurches forward.
“You really had your computer just chilling on your legs?” I ask, stifling a laugh. “Are you jonesing for a new computer or something and the only way Margot will go for it is if this one break?”
He doesn’t answer me as he maneuvers the laptop back onto his lap, pulling with his arms and wrists, not his hands and fingers, which are extended but limp, but I can see a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t tell,” he says, huffing quietly from the effort of getting the laptop back in place, then glances at me and holds his right thumb, which he can kind of flex, up to his lips and makes a Shhh face.
I pantomime zipping my lips and throwing away the key. Then, before he can lapse back into scrolling, I add, “Let’s take that as a sign from the universe and just pick something already.” He pauses and there’s only one title I recognize, and I’m pretty sure it’s a kid’s movie. But it’s time to get this show on the road. I point at it even though that’s pointless since we’re just sharing a screen and not a computer. “Bridge to Terabithia, go.”
The movie opens with a little boy – well, little to us, but probably not to the intended audience – running through a cow pasture and thinking about an upcoming race. The movie opens with a little boy – well, little to us, but probably not to the intended audience – running through a cow pasture and thinking about an upcoming race. Something about the way the boy moves – fast, unthinking, all limbs and energy – makes my chest ache a little.
Twelve years on and it doesn’t seem to bother Sean much anymore, but I still try to be sensitive about it. Maybe that’s dumb – patronizing, even – but I can’t help it. Because the truth is, I still remember when Sean used to move like that. Not in cow pastures or whatever, but in the way he’d vault over benches on the green in college just to make me laugh, or jog backwards in crosswalks because it was funny, or race up a flight of stairs for the sake of sheer competitiveness. He had this loose, easy physicality, like his body was just another extension of his thoughts.
And then it was gone.
I remember when I found out. Not just the facts, which were absurd enough on their own, but the moment I found out. The way time collapsed a little. The way that there was suddenly a Before and an After.
It wasn’t anything dramatic. He just slipped. That’s it. It was a weird, rainy Tuesday, a work trip somewhere north of Copenhagen, and the sidewalk was slick with rain and foliage. He was carrying a tray of coffee that he’d picked up for the team and trying not to spill it. It was the first day of the conference, and even though he had an intern to do such things for him, it was in his nature to just do things like that himself instead. He slipped on the sidewalk and went down hard, landed wrong, and…just didn’t get back up.
I’ve read enough and heard enough since to know how fragile the cervical spine is. How a twist, a fraction of force in just the wrong direction or the wrong place can sever everything you know about your body. But I didn’t know any of that then. All I knew then was that my phone buzzed on Friday morning and there was a message from his cousin, one that I’d met a handful of times over the years but didn’t really know, asking if I’d heard. Then it was hospitals and surgeries and time zones and long pauses on the phone where neither of us knew what to say.
It's stupid and self-centered and I still feel guilty for it, but one of the real kickers of the whole thing, one of the parts that got me the most – beyond the word “paralyzed” – was that I hadn’t even known he was on the trip to begin with. We’d been in the height of our hyper-independent era. We were in our late twenties, ambitious, always in motion. Sure, we still kept in touch, but every conversation was some half-finished text about travel delays or work stress or a meme. It had gotten harder to stay in sync, but I hadn’t quite realized how deep the chasm between us had grown until that moment. And then suddenly nothing else mattered to me but this new version of Sean. The Sean who couldn’t hold run. Who couldn’t sit up. Who, for a while, couldn’t even breathe on his own. The Sean I was convinced was utterly changed, who I didn’t have a mental framework, who I felt like I’d never know again.
Before and After.
But the Sean on my screen now is still Sean. That’s been the biggest relief and strangest revelation. If anything, his best parts are even sharper now. Like, he got funnier. Wryer. Quicker, somehow, even though everything else about his life slowed down. He listens better now, too – really listens, with that quiet, anchoring attention he never quite had when we were younger and multitasking through every conversation. He doesn’t pretend not to care anymore or bother to hid his feelings anymore, either. About people. About showing up. He says what he means. He makes the time. I don’t think he used to realize that time was something you could make on purpose.
It seems a little unfair that it took something so big to bring the best parts to the surface. But maybe they were always there and just easier to miss when everything was easy.
But every so often, like when his laptop tips off his lap due to a spasm or his hands don’t quite obey him, I still catch myself holding my breath. It’s not pity – I swear it’s not, he’d hate that, and I know better than to pity someone just for being paralyzed now – but something quieter and harder to name. Grief, maybe? That sounds dramatic…yet accurate. Not just for what he lost, but for how easily it could have gone the other way. How easily I could’ve missed this – missed him afterwards – entirely.
He laughs suddenly – at something characters onscreen are saying, not at me – and the sound breaks my reverie. I shift, pulling the blanket I’ve got over my legs tighter as his laptop wobbles slightly as he nudges it into a more secure position with the back of his arm. A few more minutes go by and he shifts again. Over the years, he’s gotten good at making adjustments look casual to the point of being almost imperceptible, just small movements – angling his shoulders, tilting his neck slightly like he’s trying to stretch without really moving. But even with that, and even though the picture-in-picture is small, the movie taking up most of the screen, I still catch it.
But then his head dips for a second, like he’s thinking, and then he pauses the movie, which surprises me.
“Is this movie about to emotionally devastate me?” he asks flatly.
I shrug because I truthfully don’t know. It’s a kids’ movie and I’m a forty-year-old woman. “Doesn’t matter now,” I tell him, “we’re eighty minutes into it, we’re not stopping now.”
We both chuckle in soft agreement as he starts the movie again. The boy from the beginning is back on the screen, and he’s watching a rope swing sway above the creek. Even though I don’t know exactly what’s coming, I can guess, and I feel my stomach drop.
I glance down at Sean’s picture-in-picture. His expression is still, eyes slightly glassy all of a sudden, but his mouth is set in that stubborn, slightly ironic crooked half-smile he always wears when something hits too close to home and he doesn’t want anyone to say anything about it.
We’re both quiet as the scene onscreen continues. Jesse, the boy, learns that his best friend, Leslie, is dead, that she tried to swing across the creek without him and the rope snapped. Just like that, she’s gone. It’s the kind of accident that happens fast, without much warning, and changes everything. It’s a kids’ movie, sure, but it’s also about the randomness of loss, about how no one ever thinks that moment is going to be the moment.
As the credits roll, Sean lets out a long breath. One of those slow, shaky exhales that people try to play off as a sigh but is usually something else.
I make his picture-in-picture full screen now that the movie’s over. One glance at his face and there it is: the unmistakable shimmer of tears in his eyes. Just a trace, nothing dramatic. He’s still smiling, sort of, though there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth that gives away the effort it’s taking to keep it there.
“You okay?” I ask gently, smiling softly. Truthfully, I feel just as verklempt. I’m just not as comfortable showing it as he is now.
He wipes at his face with the back of his wrist. “If you tell anyone I cried during that kids movie, I’ll block you.”
I start to laugh at the irony of my thoughts against his words, but before I can respond, there’s a blur of movement and the laptop pivots smoothly away from Sean. Suddenly Margot’s face fills the screen, her hair a mess, wearing one of Sean’s old college T-shirts that somehow looks chic on her.
“Penny!” she says brightly, her French accent lilting, making my name sound like Peh-nee instead of Pen-ee. “You are keeping him out of trouble?”
It’s the line she always uses when we talk – something Sean must have told her early on, about how I was the more responsible one in college. “Trying,” I say, grinning. Then, a little teasing, a little apologetic: “Afraid I may have actually caused it this time.”
Margot laughs, and the screen jostles again until she exclaims “Yah-ha!” and Sean yells “Cheater!” I can tell she’s standing now.
“He cried at the end, hmn?” she stage-whispers.
“Can confirm,” I say, delighted.
Sean groans in the background.
Margot gives him back the laptop and disappears, but not before kissing his cheek and whispering something that makes them both laugh. The light in his room shifts; the lamp beside his bed clicks off, leaving his face lit only by the laptop glow. I hear faint sounds of movement in the background—Margot getting ready to start their nighttime routine. It’s the middle of the day for me, but late there. We both know we’ll have to wrap up soon.
I stretch in my chair and start folding the blanket in my lap. “Hey, so Jason says we should plan a virtual game night again soon. Something low-key, if you two are up for it.”
Sean nods, mouth twitching. “As long as it’s not charades.”
I laugh. That's a game night suggestion that my husband will never live down. There’s a beat of comfortable silence. We sit like that for a moment, just sharing the space while we still have it.
“You good?” I ask again, and this time not about the movie.
He nods, his expression softening. “I really am.”
If I were there, I’d reach for his hand. He’d squeeze back, weakly, barely a flicker, but something. Instead, we trade soft, knowing smiles. We sign off the way we always do: no big goodbyes, no forced sentiment. Just a wave, a promise to text soon, and one last lingering moment before one of us clicks the red button and the screen goes dark.
We don’t get the luxury of ease anymore. Not with time. Not with distance. Not with a million other things.
But that’s okay. Because nothing between us happens by accident now.
And maybe it never really did.
Thursday, April 27, 2023
"I'm still here" ; prompt challenge WEEK #1
I dab tiny dots of concealer under my eyes. Looking at them in the mirror, I can't recall a time when I didn't do it. I sit i before my vanity mirror, tilting my head to get the light just right as I soften my features with makeup. I'm immediately satisfied with the way the dark circles from my sleepless nights seem to disappear with each delicate tap of the concealer, blending seamlessly into my skin. It’s a quiet, meticulous work, like an artist's, and I use my clean ring finger to gently lift the corners of my eyes where I suspect-
“Stop obsessing. There’s nothing there, Vee.” I hear Matt's voice behind me, his reflection in the mirror, like he’s reading my mind. It doesn’t take a lot—I'm an open book in a foreign language that he happens to be an expert on. “You’re perfect.”
Monday, December 12, 2022
Only in My Dreams?
Friday, June 17, 2022
Pillow Talk
It’s late at night and they’re lying in bed when she notices it. She reaches across his chest and fingers the silver chain around his neck, traces the shape of the symbol where it sits just underneath his collarbone. He watches her through half lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth soft.
“Have you always been religious?”
Noah hesitates just a beat too long before he answers, and that hesitation reveals to Talia everything he doesn’t explicitly say when he tells her, “Not remotely.”
“Mmm, so you’re a poser?” She teases him with a light smile, moving her finger from his collarbone to a spot lower on his chest flirting with the area where she knows things start to get patchy.
His chuckle is low and throaty, and she knows it’s from her touch as much as from her question. “Near death experiences will do that to you.” He shrugs, shoulders lifting slightly and then falling heavily like everything below them is weighted.
“Luckily it was only a near-death experience,” Talia murmurs, kissing a spot on his sternum.
Noah's eyes drift closed at the touch of her lips. When he opens them again, there's something vulnerable there that wasn't present before. He nudges his arm towards hers using mostly the movement in his shoulders, his hand flopping limply onto the top of hers where it sits on his chest.
"An attempt at divine insurance," he says finally. "It was my mother's idea."
He falls silent, and Talia doesn't push. Instead, she traces the outline of the medal with her fingertip, the metal cool against her skin despite having been warmed by his body. She waits, watching the subtle changes in his expression.
"Saint Christopher," he offers after a long moment, his voice softer. "Patron saint of travelers."
Talia shifts closer, draping part of her body over his. She works one leg between his, careful not to bump the tube running from his lower abdomen to the leg bag. His legs, soft and pliable from years of disuse, make it easy. "Fitting. You traveled a lot for work, right?"
Noah's lips quirk up at one corner. "That's not why she chose it."
"No?" Talia prompts gently. Her hand glides from the medal to his shoulder, then down his arm, kneading softly as she goes, feeling the muscle fade from toned to slack.
He watches her hand travel, and for a while, he seems content to let the conversation lapse and stop there. His own hand comes up to her face, brushing over her bottom lip with the back of his knuckles, his fingers curled limply, in a gesture that sends warmth spiraling through her.
"He's also the patron saint against sudden death," Noah finally says, his eyes focused on her mouth.
"Ah," Talia murmurs. She leans in, kisses him softly. "Hence the near part of the phrase ‘near-death experience’, right?”
His chuckle rumbles deep in his chest. Even though it made him laugh, he’s actually not sure she meant it as a joke. But that’s been his experience with Talia for several weeks now. She makes him want to laugh unexpectedly, even at – especially at – the previously unlaughable things.
He takes a moment before he turns his expression more serious. "It wasn’t for work. I was coming back from a ski trip with the guys. Just a quick weekend out at Eldora and back. I was driving through the night to make it to work by 8am on Monday." He takes a breath, and Talia can see him deciding how much to share. It isn’t like they’ve never talked about this, but Noah hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about the finer details either. He’ll drop breadcrumbs – October, four years, a car wreck – but nothing substantial, and Talia’s not usually one to push. “It was the middle of the night and a deer jumped out in front of me.”
His right leg, the one underneath hers, suddenly jerks in a spasm. She flashes him an Oops kind of look, like her legs being entwined with his might have set it off. He shakes his head at her silent non-question question. “Good timing, huh?”
Talia smiles and moves her hand from where it had started to drift lower back up to his chest. “Go on,” she encourages quietly, pushing more than she ever has.
Noah exhales slowly. "Not much else to tell. I swerved but still hit the deer. My car rolled. Woke up two days later with a spinal cord injury." He says it matter-of-factly, but Talia can feel the weight of all he's not saying. "Mom showed up at the hospital with this." His knuckles touch the medal briefly. "Said Saint Christopher must have been watching over me, that I was spared for a reason." His lips quirk up at one corner. "The thing is, not one of us has ever been religious, much less Catholic."
Talia laughs softly against his skin. "Religious conversion by trauma?"
"Something like that," he says, his smile warming his eyes. "Mom went full spiritual seeker after the accident. I got Saint Christopher. My sister got crystals."
"Do you believe it though?" Talia asks, her voice soft.
Noah doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he reaches for her and hooks his wrist around her arm, then weakly tugs her closer until she’s half-draped across his chest. His hand threads through her hair; his limp fingers occasionally catch in her curls.
"I believe," he says finally, voice low and deliberate, "that I'm still trying to figure out what that reason might be."
He shifts slightly—not his body, which remains still—but a faint lift of his shoulders, the only movement he can offer. It's enough to bring his face closer. His breath is warm against her skin.
"Though lately," he murmurs, lips brushing her forehead, "I have some theories."
The implication in his words makes her cheeks warm.
"What about you?" he asks after the silence between them has stretched comfortably. "Any life-altering moments I should know about?"
Talia tenses slightly, not expecting the question to be turned back on her. Just like her – or maybe because of her own habit – he’s also not pushed her much about her past, though he’s picked up from offhand comments that it isn’t as white bread as she likes to pretend. She hesitates, and he notices, his hand pausing in her hair.
"You don't have to tell me," he says, giving her an easy out.
She considers taking it like usual, changing the subject, but there’s something about the way he’s let himself be soft with her tonight. It feels like it deserves more than her usual deflection.
"I had a daughter," she says, the words coming out in a rush, as if she might lose her nerve if she slows down. Then she falls silent, her breath catching.
Of all the things he was expecting, that one wasn’t even on his radar. But he tries not to show it. Instead, Noah waits, his hand resuming its halting movement through her hair. When she doesn't continue, he asks, "When?"
Talia shifts, resting her chin on his chest to look at him. "She's nine now." The words feel strange in her mouth—both familiar from her private thoughts and foreign being spoken aloud.
"Do you see her?" Noah's question is gentle, without judgment.
Talia's eyes drift to a point somewhere beyond his shoulder. "It's an open adoption. I get pictures. Letters." She swallows the lump in her throat. It doesn’t make sense to feel emotional. It isn’t fair. Because in the grand scheme of things, it ended up being the best thing for everyone involved. Yet her eyes still sting whenever she’s mentioned. "Her name is Eliza."
Noah's hand moves to trace the curve of her spine with his knuckles, trying to offer comfort without saying anything contrite or overwrought. "That must be hard," he says simply.
"Yes." The single word contains multitudes. "And no." She shifts again, restless now, and sits up slightly, drawing the sheet around her. "It was the right choice. I was nineteen."
When she falls silent again, Noah doesn't immediately fill the space. He watches her, giving her time. His hand finds hers where it rests against the mattress. He can’t squeeze it or feel it, only see it. But she can – and she does.
"I've never told anyone I've dated," she admits after a long moment. "It's this... enormous thing that happened, that shaped everything about who I am, but it's invisible."
"Is that why you work with kids?" Noah asks after a long moment of silence. He, too, knows what it’s like to try and fill an unfillable void.
A moment of surprise crosses her face, as if she hadn't expected him, in a matter of minutes, to make the connection that it’d taken her years to make. "Maybe," she says. "Probably. Though I didn't realize the connection at first."
She looks down at their joined hands, then back to his face. "I was afraid to tell you. People make assumptions, judgments. Or they get uncomfortable and don't know what to say."
"I understand something about that," Noah says with a hint of wry humor, his eyes briefly glancing toward the bulky wheelchair next to his bed.
Talia follows his gaze, then looks back at him with a small smile. "I guess we both have our before and after moments."
Noah tugs gently on her hand, coaxing her back down. As she settles beside him, he shifts just slightly, shoulders tilting in that familiar, deliberate way that signals effort more than motion.
“It’s late,” he murmurs, suddenly aware of the time in a way he hasn’t been all night. “I should probably get off my back.”
Talia lifts her head, catching the quiet in his voice, the way his eyes hold hers just a second longer. Then she moves, pushing back the covers, rising to her knees beside him.
“Okay,” she says gently and with an easy smile – of course it’s easy now that the heat is off her for a moment. “Let’s do it.”
He doesn’t need to say more. He can’t help much, not really. But she’s done this with him once before, earlier, awkward and careful. Now her hands move with more certainty.
She starts at his far shoulder, slipping one hand beneath it and the other across his chest. His body is solid under her touch, heavy. She braces, then rocks him gently toward her, just enough to roll his torso. One leg follows with a slight drag of fabric against the sheets and she reaches to adjust it, then pulls a pillow in behind his back for support.
Noah exhales slowly, the tension in his face easing once he’s settled on his side.
She smooths the blanket back over him, then curls in close, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. His arm rests loosely around her waist, the weight of it more passive than holding, but still anchoring.
"Tell me about her," Noah says quietly after a moment. "Eliza."
The name in his mouth makes Talia's heart constrict. "She likes horses," she says after a moment. "And space. Her last letter said she wants to be an astronaut veterinarian."
Noah's laugh is gentle. "Ambitious."
"Just a bit." Talia smiles, her finger tracing idle patterns on his chest again. "She has my eyes. Her father's smile." The words come easier now. "She's happy. That's what matters."
"And you? Are you happy?" Noah's question is soft but direct.
Talia considers this, feeling the solid warmth of his body against hers, the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand. "I'm getting there," she says honestly.
It’s strange to say it out loud after so many years of keeping Eliza’s existence so close to her heart. But now, in this moment, actually sharing it with someone who fundamentally understands what it means to have life suddenly split into two distinct chapters – even if their chapters are vastly different – that’s new.
She feels him press a kiss on the top of her head. They lie in comfortable silence, and eventually Talia lets her eyes drift shut.
"Noah?" she whispers after a while.
"Mmm?"
"Thank you for asking about her. Most people wouldn't.”
He kisses the top of her hair again. "Thank you for telling me."
Talia's breathing begins to slow, her body growing heavier against his as sleep approaches. Noah watches her, his eyes tracing the contours of her face in the dim light. Just as he thinks she might have drifted off, she speaks again, her voice thick with approaching sleep.
"You know what I think?" she murmurs.
"What's that?" he asks softly.
"I think maybe this is it." Her eyes flutter open briefly and she’s surprised to see he’s tilted his head down to look at her. Her brown eyes meet his green ones. "Maybe this is the reason.”
Something shifts in Noah's expression – surprise, followed by a tenderness so raw it makes Talia's chest ache. He lifts his hand, slowly, deliberately, led by the flex of his wrist more than the fingers themselves. His hand is curled, fingers mostly limp, but he brings it to her cheek with quiet intent. The backs of his knuckles graze her skin first, and then, with careful control, he angles his wrist just enough to let the soft edge of his thumb brush across her cheekbone. He doesn’t say anything. Neither of them do.
Eventually sleep begins to claim them both. Before she drifts off for real this time, Talia's fingers find their way back to the Saint Christopher medal resting against his skin. "I'm glad your mom gave you this," she murmurs, "even if you're not religious."
Noah smiles in the darkness, his hand covering hers where it rests against the medal. "Me too," he admits. "Though if you tell her that, I'll deny it entirely."
The last thing Talia remembers before drifting off is the sound of his quiet laughter and the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her palm—the most sacred thing she's felt in years, religious or not.