WEIRDO.

Writing is so difficult for me because I just want to puke up a bunch of feelingsandwordsandfluffythings but THAT’S NOT HOW IT WORKS you have to concentrate all those things and dole them out in a controlled way and I’M JUST SO TERRIBLE AT THAT.

It’s dark in the apartment. Her hair falls in her face; she brushes it away. Easy and fast. It’s been one month.

He should have called by now. He had said he would call.

The phone rings. She hurries to pick it up, and it drops. Cursing, she picks it up again. She breathes a soft ‘hello’ into the transmitter, and listens as he speaks back, listens as he says her name. She closes her eyes. It’s never hurt this much before.

In the background, she can hear the sound of soft steps on cobblestone, and asks where he is. He gives her the answer she was expecting. She smiles, a sad smile, and tucks her hair behind her ear.

Outside her window, she hears traffic. She pushes back the curtains to look out at the cars and pedestrians, the skyline, the lake. She loves it. All of it.

But.

On the other line, he is still speaking. He talks about the weather, the new things, the old things. He talks about where they have been, and where he wants them to go. He talks about her.

He asks if she’s happy there. She nods, but realizes he can’t see this. He asks again. “Yes,” she says. She wants to say more.

He has to go. She gives an air kiss, and slowly moves the phone away from her ear. She feels empty.

Everything you wanted, she thinks. She walks to her room and sits by the window. Pushes the curtains back. Gazes outside.

The lake: clear edges. The buildings: sharp turns. The people: clean cuts.

It’s what she wants.

It’s where she is.

It’s what what she loves.

But.

Back three months. She is standing on the log. Her feet are bare; she’s not wearing a coat. She can hear the waves moving behind her. She is smiling.

They walk over to her, stepping over rocks and through sand. She feels warm. She jumps off the log and runs to the water, kicking up sand behind her. They follow.

The water is cold. They are standing behind her. She puts her hands in and splashes them. They splash her back. She laughs.

There is salt water in her mouth. It tastes familiar. It smells safe.

They move away from the water, falling into the sand. They are laughing.

They breathe in the cool air, filling their lungs with salt. It’s intoxicating, and it’s real. She is happy.

But.

Now.

She sits next to the window, looking out on the cold cityscape. It’s what you want.

She breathes in. Chicago is beautiful in the winter.

She breathes out. She can hear the sadness in her breath. It hurts. She closes her eyes, leaning her head against the window frame. Five months ago…

They step through the glass doors, into the square. It’s dark. The small statue on the other side of the flowerbed is lit by streetlights and passing cars. It’s warm.

She takes his hand, and he smiles at her. He asks where she wants to go. She answers, and they walk up the street.

They come to Congress and turn right. Cars pass by. The clock on top of city hall is illuminated.

They pass the park.

They pass Franklin.

They pass the shops and the cemetery.

They keep walking; pass the observatory.

They reach the end of the street and breathe deeply. She looks across the grass to the playground, then to the steep, green hill. They walk down.

She leads him through the parking lot, still holding his hand. They are walking on stone. They are walking on sand. He rolls up his pant legs and she takes off her shoes. The wade into the water. It’s cool and familiar. She is happy.

She had wanted to leave. Escape, she had thought. From what?

Home. Ocean. Churches. Old Port. Islands. Beaches. Car rides. Cafes. Cobblestone streets. Bookstores. Home.

She had succeeded.

She looks out again at the city skyline. The lake, the buildings, all clear outlines. The sun is beginning to set.

The sharp and shiny angles: What you want.

The freshwater: Where you are.

The cold city… unfamiliar, vast, trapped inland, lonely:

Where you belong.

But…

Not where she belongs.

It’s dark in the apartment. Her hair falls in her face; she brushes it away. Easy and fast. It’s been one month.

He should have called by now. He had said he would call.

The phone rings. She hurries to pick it up, and it drops. Cursing, she picks it up again. She breathes a soft ‘hello’ into the transmitter, and listens as he speaks back, listens as he says her name. She closes her eyes. It’s never hurt this much before.

In the background, she can hear the sound of soft steps on cobblestone, and asks where he is. He gives her the answer she was expecting. She smiles, a sad smile, and tucks her hair behind her ear.

Outside her window, she hears traffic. She pushes back the curtains to look out at the cars and pedestrians, the skyline, the lake. She loves it. All of it.

But.

On the other line, he is still speaking. He talks about the weather, the new things, the old things. He talks about where they have been, and where he wants them to go. He talks about her.

He asks if she’s happy there. She nods, but realizes he can’t see this. He asks again. “Yes,” she says. She wants to say more.

He has to go. She gives an air kiss, and slowly moves the phone away from her ear. She feels empty.

Everything you wanted, she thinks. She walks to her room and sits by the window. Pushes the curtains back. Gazes outside.

The lake: clear edges. The buildings: sharp turns. The people: clean cuts.

It’s what she wants.

It’s where she is.

It’s what what she loves.

But.

Back three months. She is standing on the log. Her feet are bare; she’s not wearing a coat. She can hear the waves moving behind her. She is smiling.

They walk over to her, stepping over rocks and through sand. She feels warm. She jumps off the log and runs to the water, kicking up sand behind her. They follow.

The water is cold. They are standing behind her. She puts her hands in and splashes them. They splash her back. She laughs.

There is salt water in her mouth. It tastes familiar. It smells safe.

They move away from the water, falling into the sand. They are laughing.

They breathe in the cool air, filling their lungs with salt. It’s intoxicating, and it’s real. She is happy.

But.

Now.

She sits next to the window, looking out on the cold cityscape. It’s what you want.

She breathes in. Chicago is beautiful in the winter.

She breathes out. She can hear the sadness in her breath. It hurts. She closes her eyes, leaning her head against the window frame. Five months ago…

They step through the glass doors, into the square. It’s dark. The small statue on the other side of the flowerbed is lit by streetlights and passing cars. It’s warm.

She takes his hand, and he smiles at her. He asks where she wants to go. She answers, and they walk up the street.

They come to Congress and turn right. Cars pass by. The clock on top of city hall is illuminated.

They pass the park.

They pass Franklin.

They pass the shops and the cemetery.

They keep walking; pass the observatory.

They reach the end of the street and breathe deeply. She looks across the grass to the playground, then to the steep, green hill. They walk down.

She leads him through the parking lot, still holding his hand. They are walking on stone. They are walking on sand. He rolls up his pant legs and she takes off her shoes. The wade into the water. It’s cool and familiar. She is happy.

She had wanted to leave. Escape, she had thought. From what?

Home. Ocean. Churches. Old Port. Islands. Beaches. Car rides. Cafes. Cobblestone streets. Bookstores. Home.

She had succeeded.

She looks out again at the city skyline. The lake, the buildings, all clear outlines. The sun is beginning to set.

The sharp and shiny angles: What you want.

The freshwater: Where you are.

The cold city… unfamiliar, vast, trapped inland, lonely:

Where you belong.

But…

Not where she belongs.

It’s dark in the apartment. Her hair falls in her face; she brushes it away. Easy and fast. It’s been one month.

He should have called by now. He had said he would call.

The phone rings. She hurries to pick it up, and it drops. Cursing, she picks it up again. She breathes a soft ‘hello’ into the transmitter, and listens as he speaks back, listens as he says her name. She closes her eyes. It’s never hurt this much before.

In the background, she can hear the sound of soft steps on cobblestone, and asks where he is. He gives her the answer she was expecting. She smiles, a sad smile, and tucks her hair behind her ear.

Outside her window, she hears traffic. She pushes back the curtains to look out at the cars and pedestrians, the skyline, the lake. She loves it. All of it.

But.

On the other line, he is still speaking. He talks about the weather, the new things, the old things. He talks about where they have been, and where he wants them to go. He talks about her.

He asks if she’s happy there. She nods, but realizes he can’t see this. He asks again. “Yes,” she says. She wants to say more.

He has to go. She gives an air kiss, and slowly moves the phone away from her ear. She feels empty.

Everything you wanted, she thinks. She walks to her room and sits by the window. Pushes the curtains back. Gazes outside.

The lake: clear edges. The buildings: sharp turns. The people: clean cuts.

It’s what she wants.

It’s where she is.

It’s what what she loves.

But.

Back three months. She is standing on the log. Her feet are bare; she’s not wearing a coat. She can hear the waves moving behind her. She is smiling.

They walk over to her, stepping over rocks and through sand. She feels warm. She jumps off the log and runs to the water, kicking up sand behind her. They follow.

The water is cold. They are standing behind her. She puts her hands in and splashes them. They splash her back. She laughs.

There is salt water in her mouth. It tastes familiar. It smells safe.

They move away from the water, falling into the sand. They are laughing.

They breathe in the cool air, filling their lungs with salt. It’s intoxicating, and it’s real. She is happy.

But.

Now.

She sits next to the window, looking out on the cold cityscape. It’s what you want.

She breathes in. Chicago is beautiful in the winter.

She breathes out. She can hear the sadness in her breath. It hurts. She closes her eyes, leaning her head against the window frame. Five months ago…

They step through the glass doors, into the square. It’s dark. The small statue on the other side of the flowerbed is lit by streetlights and passing cars. It’s warm.

She takes his hand, and he smiles at her. He asks where she wants to go. She answers, and they walk up the street.

They come to Congress and turn right. Cars pass by. The clock on top of city hall is illuminated.

They pass the park.

They pass Franklin.

They pass the shops and the cemetery.

They keep walking; pass the observatory.

They reach the end of the street and breathe deeply. She looks across the grass to the playground, then to the steep, green hill. They walk down.

She leads him through the parking lot, still holding his hand. They are walking on stone. They are walking on sand. He rolls up his pant legs and she takes off her shoes. The wade into the water. It’s cool and familiar. She is happy.

She had wanted to leave. Escape, she had thought. From what?

Home. Ocean. Churches. Old Port. Islands. Beaches. Car rides. Cafes. Cobblestone streets. Bookstores. Home.

She had succeeded.

She looks out again at the city skyline. The lake, the buildings, all clear outlines. The sun is beginning to set.

The sharp and shiny angles: What you want.

The freshwater: Where you are.

The cold city… unfamiliar, vast, trapped inland, lonely:

Where you belong.

But…

Not where she belongs.

You’re not new.

I know you too well
for you to be.

When you shut the door,
I knew I wouldn’t get away with it.
Not that time.

Then, when you came back,
you wanted me to think
it wasn’t you.

But I knew it was.
I still do.

It still hurts.

Because even though I want to
forget,
I can’t.

You thought, maybe
if you shut the door,
I would forget.

But you’re the same, and I
know I’ve changed.

I know,

You’re not new.