romance

There were thousands of bands in the world, but only one mattered. They were right about one thing. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was special. I couldn't pin it down, but he was different, apart from these others, all who had this sort of......blurred, almost deadened expression on their faces. He had something else in his face, eyes. And he was the one, the only one.

But that was twenty five years ago, and he's .......dead now. The circumstances are still a mystery.

And, he left, he's gone, on the other side of the Atlantic.....why???????????????

Why did he leave me?

She filled the tub with hot water, and grabbed everything she needed: red wine, cigarettes, a joint (heck it doesn't matter anyway, now), tea, gel, an ashtray, scented candle......and the steak knife. She sat in the tub, drank the wine, lit the joint. Music? Oh well, forgot. A few minutes went by. The wine and mj were making her head spin.......I'll end it now.....but where will I go? What will happen to me after? What will I face? What if I'm sinning? Forgive me, forgive me, whoever's there. Her face screwed up, almost pouting. She started crying again. I can't......how many girls killed themselves over him? She held the knife to her wrists, and for the first time in her life she saw her own mortality and realized she, too, could end her life. But I don't want to become another statistic, another body in the morgue. I can't, not yet, I still have to.......my mission here isn't finished. When will it be? I can't not yet.

I tried to slit my wrists over you, she told him. A gun's easier, he said. If you're going to end it, why not do it quickly? Why give yourself so much pain? Because a gun isn't a ladylike way to do it, she said.

In Gone With the Wind, the catty girls said, men may flirt with girls like that but they don't marry them. Melanie alone defended her, the girl who tried to take her husband. She was the Friday night girl, a "Chia." She was the one hidden from their wives and girlfriends, snuck in during odd hours when they were away or in clandestine meetings in hotel rooms, or at her place when they were on the way home from work, sometimes at their jobs. There wasn't one case of a married man who wasn't having problems with his wife.

Joan of Arc, child of Satan, so dark even Jesus can't save you, born under unlucky, cursed, fixed stars. Joan of Arc shall be France's saint. Child of hell. All these lines are from Lady Snowblood. It's a fascination, a "cursed" child who becomes an instrument of revenge, and a saint.

I feel just like Cindrella! In my beautiful dress on my beautiful wedding day. I go outside for a breath of air, so thankful to be alone even for a minute. I take a breath, just for myself. It's so quiet. If I still smoked I'd be smoking. And then.......there he is. I am not going to faint or have a heart attack. He's not a ghost. My lover, my "dead" lover, the one whose death I avenged on the whole fucking village, is not really dead, but standing right in front of me. You faked your death! I cry. I want you, now, more than ever, he says. You've never looked more beautiful than now, in your wedding dress. I want you, I want you now. It'll have to be fast, I say. So........we sneak into the church basement, into.......a dressing room? A pretty nice one. It happens so fast......marriage must be borne with fortitude, said Ellen O'Hara in Gone with the Wind. He's all over me......then......it's all over me. Meanwhile upstairs is my husband, looking for me, asking, where's my wife? I run upstairs to clean myself off. You can smell it, him, his fluids, on me. My husband will smell it. I find a sink, pour soap on me, am washing myself, and my husband approaches. There you are! he says. Yeah, I say. I just.....spilled something on myself, I'm such a clutz. And off the two of us go, the fairy tale lovers. I later in my designer clothes a hetaira....but married.