Mirror image

We sit in a deli, munching on chips and waiting for our sandwiches. I trace the black and white checks on the little table and glance around.

There’s a young couple to our right, good looking and likely aware of it, if their faces are any indication. It’s the look I wear when I’m made up – chin raised a bit higher, a slightly haughty, bored with it all expression. They stare silently at each other across the table and I’d be willing to wager that the only reason they aren’t speaking is because we’re within hearing distance.

To our left is an elderly couple, their bodies curved toward each other like weathered parentheses. I can only imagine what lies in the protected area between them, but that doesn’t really matter because, like most sentences, everything I really need to know is already out in the open. Further explanation would just ruin the effect of their shared side of the table, or the battered ring on his exposed left hand.

A group of teenagers sits, barely visible, around the corner of the counter. They’ve ordered their food to go, talking and laughing loudly amongst themselves while they wait. The crew making our sandwiches seems to find their exploits more interesting than the other patrons do.

And what about the two of us, this final pair? What, if anything, do these people notice about the way we sit and the way we speak to each other? I try to picture ourselves through a stranger’s eyes and it’s difficult.

She recently dyed her hair a dark, chestnut brown and I wonder if it dilutes our other physical similarities. I don’t think I look good as a brunette and prefer to keep as close to our original blonde as possible. Dark versus fair – she calls herself “the good twin”, but we have different opinions on what constitutes goodness. In fact, we have differing opinions on just about everything. Can they tell?

Our sandwiches arrive and, between bites, we continue our conversation. She lowers her voice, while my louder tone mingles with the laughs round the corner. We’re discussing a trip I’m taking soon and, though she isn’t angry as I expected her to be, she doesn’t understand my wanderlust. Everything she wants is right here in her own country, in her own backyard. She thinks everyone should be content with what they already have. It’s only one of the many ways we frustrate each other.

I complement her on the choice of restaurant and she smiles, offering me a taste of her sandwich. I don’t give compliments and she very rarely shares with me. She claims I always take what I want anyway, and perhaps that’s true. But we both seem to be trying harder today, and I wonder if our thoughtfulness seems as new to those around us as it does to me. Like the palpable awkwardness of a first date, can onlookers tell that we are more at home screaming at each other than having a normal conversation?

We’ve just finished wrapping up what’s left of our meal when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up and into the smiling face of the old woman, her husband waiting patiently behind her.

“You look just like your mother”, she says, patting me once.

“Thanks”, I reply.

I glance across the table expecting to see my own face, twenty years older, smirking back at me. But I don’t. This is the moment when she always says, without fail, “Actually, I’m the better looking one” or “She’s the evil twin”.

Instead she says nothing. And suddenly I wonder if what she, and everyone else, has been seeing, is my reluctance to be like her.

The end

I watch the playback from our video one last time before sending it into the Internet abyss.

We’re talking, but I barely listen to the words. I’m too busy reading between them. The smiling, the head tilting toward him, the hair touching - the smug satisfaction plastered all over me. But I’d dimly noticed those things about my body language before. This time, I pay attention to his. The lowered cap, cast down eyes, his body angled straight forward and slightly hunched...keeping me, and everyone else, out. This time I’m looking for the “Dead End” signs, deliberately not thinking about how he pressed me up against a wall shortly after we stopped recording, and became someone completely different.

I shred the skin from the corner of my fingernail, leaving a red open area that hurts. Yet I continuously pick at it; dig into it with my other nails, actually liking the tiny flickers of pain. I click the delete button with regret.

It’s not usually in my nature to erase the past. I prefer to wallow in it, pick at it. These might not be the feelings I want, but surely they’re better than nothing. After all, I can’t write about nothing.

*****

My biggest regret is not that I let him in. It’s not sleeping with him or even falling for him. I’m not embarrassed (anymore) that I ignored warning signs that were always there.

What I regret is that I was ashamed of how strongly I felt, because of our circumstances. When I wasn’t delirious with feelings I’m not exactly accustomed to, I was hiding them from everyone because they might think it was not only weird, but impossible.

I regret downplaying my emotions to save his feelings, because it made me resentful. “I’ve always been brutally honest with you”, I said to him. But that’s not entirely true. I fell just short of that every time I bit my tongue to make him happy, every time I bitched about him instead of to him when he hurt my feelings or pissed me off, and every time I refused to call him on his bullshit. It’s the strangest thing – I wanted him to hurt, to feel raw and betrayed like I did...but I couldn’t bear the thought of saying or doing anything to cause him pain. And too, I was afraid that if I rocked the boat, whatever tenuous feelings he seemed to have for me would fade.

And finally, I regret that a friendship that made me so happy for so long is over. Not necessarily because I want it to be, but because it has to be. Not because he didn’t, as he said, “feel as strongly for me” as I did for him. Though it hurt terribly, I would have eventually gotten over the fact that I wasn’t what he wanted romantically. It’s because I can’t trust him anymore. And because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget feeling not only used, but pitied.

Six months later, though they are getting fewer and farther between, there are still days when I’m so angry at him that I can’t see straight. There are days when I miss him so much its inexplicable and days when, after something notable happens, I catch myself dialing a number I can’t seem to forget.

He once told me that he was glad he met me, that he needed to meet me. At the time I was upset and the last thing on my mind was using heartbreak as a learning experience. I thought, “Sure you’re glad...you got laid.” But maybe he was right – maybe I should be glad. Maybe one day I will be.

Maybe we did need to meet each other. Not just to see if what we’d started through words would translate physically, but to push ourselves out of the rut we’d both been in for so long. I may have gone about it in an unconventional way, but I’ve never allowed anyone to get to know me on such an intimate level before. And he’s definitely struggled with putting himself out there. So maybe we were always meant to be standing right where we are now.

Maybe, in the end, he was always meant to hurt me. And I was always meant to write about it.

The middle - continued

Our little road trip and hotel weekend together wasn’t what you’d call perfect. I suspected there would be a few awkward moments because, to put it quite simply, I am awkward, but I didn’t anticipate what actually took place.

For starters, it was unlike me to flop onto the hotel bed minutes after arrival and have a staring contest. “No, you go first” I might as well have said. And it was extremely unlike me to go out to lunch with him, and even sleep with him, while wearing no makeup. And it was a freak, once in a lifetime accident that I would get so flustered by something during sex that I’d stop, horrified, and attempt to explain.

It was our second day there, we’d just come back from eating lunch and planned to take a nap before going out later. Of course, napping didn’t really happen. Instead we attempted to get busy on the hotel desk, which didn’t exactly work out because, unfortunately, it was a little too tall. So back to bed we went. And it was just getting really, really good, when he decided to try a different position and swung my legs to the right.

The polite thing would’ve been to ignore it, or wait until I acknowledged it first, but if there’s one thing I learned about fucking a friend, it’s that the usual rules don’t exactly apply. The second it happened he stopped, then started to laugh. I was so mortified that I picked up a pillow and put it over my face. I was half laughing too, but it was the kind of humorless, slightly hysterical laughing that comes out when you have no idea what else to do and you figure if you can’t beat them, you might as well join them. And then, without thinking, I blurted, “Just so you know, that was a fart....”

While he laughed even harder, I tried to figure out why on earth I’d even said that. Because frankly, I wasn’t entirely sure it was true. I absolutely hate the word “queef” and the only reason I can come up with, the only way I’d ever claim a fart under those circumstances, would be to avoid uttering that word. I literally cannot say it and even writing it makes me uncomfortable.

But there was no taking it back after that and, periodically, throughout the rest of the trip, he would smile and mention the “fart”.

Then Sunday, on the way home, I ended up having a terrible argument on the phone with my dad in front of him...which resulted in tears. It was all just too much – them having to meet in the first place, the goddamn “fart”, and then the added embarrassment of him hearing the ridiculous things dad was saying, just because he was drunk and felt like harassing me. I couldn’t help it – I cried.

I was embarrassed by my dad, by who he was and, in relation, who that made me appear to be. It wasn’t the first time that had ever happened, but it was the first time with someone that I wanted to love me. I was angry about everything that had gone wrong since the moment we’d set eyes on each other. And I was worried that, once he dropped me off, we wouldn’t see each other again.

We had plans to see each other later that week, but I was afraid he’d cancel. So just in case, when we were two streets from the house, I made him stop the car. I didn’t want to say goodbye to him in front of my family.

I leaned over and kissed him, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time.

*****

He didn’t cancel, but the next three days were still unbearably long. I had to beg like a teenager to borrow dad’s truck keys. He was angry that I was spending so much time away on what was supposed to be a visit to see him. He kept trying to get me to issue a dinner invitation instead of driving to the city, but the last thing I wanted was to have those two around each other again.

He was sitting in the living room working on his computer when I arrived. I was more relaxed than I’d been during the entire trip so far – content to sit beside him and talk about writing, to read and offer pointers when asked. We sat at a table and recorded a video, laughed at how awkward some of it was and, when we were through, watched the playback.

When we finally kissed, when he finally touched me, it felt like the natural progression of things. Not like either of us had been waiting on the other to make a move, like the first time. Not a little awkward or calculating, like at the hotel. It was different.

I didn’t figure it out until it was time for me to go, until I was standing in the middle of the room with his arms wrapped around me, trying to say goodbye. I’d told myself that I wouldn’t think about leaving until I had to, and it snuck up on me.

“I don’t want to go”, I said, face buried in his shirt.

“I know...”

His hands framed my face, pulling it up to look at him, and I thought, “It ends, much the same way it began”.

I fought hard not to cry, but I knew it was coming. Other things were said, about the fun we’d had and how we were supposed to meet, but they all ran together in a big blur. When I finally made myself turn and walk out, he followed me. We exchanged one last goodbye before I shut the truck door and drove away.

I sobbed the entire 30 minute drive back. I cried because I finally found someone that I wanted to think about the future with, and it was virtually impossible to do so. I cried because I had to spend three more days in that godforsaken state and, though he’d be only a few miles away, I wouldn’t see him. I cried because I threw away the moment – the one where we were looking at each other and I didn’t say what I wanted. I cried because the whole thing was completely fucking nuts and I had no control over it.

Or did I?

*****

The next morning I came up with a plan. I was supposed to go out on the town with my stepsister Friday and Saturday night, then fly home Sunday morning. Saturday was when all her friends were going so I asked if she’d just drop me off in the city with him, then he and I could hang out while she partied, we’d meet later and I’d ride back with her. That way, my psycho dad would think I was with her and wouldn’t have a fit about me bailing on family again, we could spend my last night together, and I’d get one more chance to say what I wanted. She agreed, so did he, and suddenly I had one more chance.

Saturday came and I was in a rush. I had to drive two hours in the opposite direction to meet a friend and make it home in time to ride into the city with my stepsister.

On the drive back I called to make sure everything was still on schedule. My stepsister suggested that instead of bailing on her, I bring him with me to dinner, we all have a good time and then he and I could go on our way. I felt a little bad about skipping out on her, so that sounded fair to me.

We ended up fighting about it. He didn’t want to go and he didn’t want to give me a reason why. My stepsister kept pushing me to get him to say yes, she couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want to go and neither could I. We bickered back and forth until he finally said something like, “Maybe I wanted it to be just the two of us for dinner.” Then he sighed and said, “But I’ll go.”

I immediately paused and thought, “Awwwww!”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the beginning”, I said. “We won’t go.” I couldn’t force the smile off my face for the rest of the drive. Up until that moment, I hadn’t been completely sure he really wanted to see me again.

But my stepsister ended up leaving a lot later than she originally planned and he had to drive downtown to meet us, which he was not happy about. He was being a pouty jerk because of traffic and it being too late to eat anywhere decent. It took us finally sitting down, eating and drinking a beer before he stopped looking miserable and I stopped being angry. I didn’t want to ruin our last night again.

When we got back to his place, I sat on one end of the couch and he lay down, putting his head in my lap. We talked, and talked and talked...more than we had the entire time I’d been there. And while we talked, I rubbed his head or let my fingers rest in his. Eventually he stood up, held out his hand and took me to bed.

Later, as I lay with my head on his chest (something else that’s unlike me), I knew it was “now or never”. Soon I’d get the phone call telling me it was time to go. He already knew a little about how I felt...I just had to tell him all of it, in person. What would happen after that, I didn’t know, but the in-between place where we said nothing was torture. I took a deep breath.

“You know I’m crazy about you, right?”

His fingers stilled on my back for just a second, then continued their lazy strokes.

“Stop”, he said quietly.

And I did. Just like that.

I wasn’t sure which one of us was the bigger coward.

The middle

Imagine you’re going to meet a person that you’re already crazy about...for the first time. You’ve spent years playing the getting to know you game without physical contact. You’ve already had arguments and disappointments, secrets and inside jokes. There’s not much you don’t share with each other and even though contact is usually a daily thing, you still can’t fight the stupid grin that spreads across your face when they call. Now imagine you’re a closet romantic that thinks this is going to play out like one of your novels.

Did this meeting go well in your mind?

If it didn’t include an impromptu meeting with your alcoholic father, immediately followed by a late night condom run, then it’s nothing like what actually happened.

I suppose he thought we were long past the point of romantic endeavors. Certainly we’d discussed the fact that we were, more than likely, going to “do it” (...on his couch, on the marble hotel desk which, in pictures, looked to be about the right height, but was actually just a tad too tall) and he even asked about my condom preference. But I figured all of that tactical talk would take a back seat once we were face to face.

Instead I found myself, minutes after unwillingly introducing him to the booze swilling bane of my existence, standing in front of a condom display. He’d forgotten to get them before I arrived and we had to pick up some things for our road trip anyway so...problem solved. But after thirty seconds or so of standing at my side and staring too, he high tailed it off in the opposite direction, telling me to choose and that he’d get started on the rest.

As he’d always been more easily embarrassed than me, and as I watched him walk briskly away, I figured the “I forgot” line wasn’t exactly true. I turned back to the display, having no idea what to choose because, obviously, it wasn’t my penis that needed fitting. And then of course there was the problem of how many – too few and we might have to go back, too many and he might think I was planning on staying undressed the entire weekend. But when some strange man appeared and grinned at me, I just said fuck it, grabbed an economy sized box and ran.

“I can’t believe you left me there”, I said when I caught up with him. He was laughing and, when he commented on the giant box I’d chosen, I couldn’t help but laugh too. It wasn’t romantic at all, but it was us, the way we’d always been – ridiculous, teasing and relatively comfortable despite the odd nature of the situation. I wanted it that way, of course, but I wanted romance too.

There were parts of what followed that somewhat satisfied my need for the romantic stuff. Our first kiss, for instance, was amazing and so much like the dream I’d had months before. Granted it was on a different couch, we weren’t being watched and it was followed by sex, not recreational vehicles. But it was him, those were his hands on my face, and I had the same overwhelming feeling of falling head first into something I was absolutely powerless to control.

But after the initial kiss, romance was temporarily forgotten. I didn’t care how much I’d liked him up until that point; I honestly hadn’t expected him to be so...well, hot. Intense. Aggressive.

Frankly, that was my usual role and I just couldn’t seem to fill it where he was concerned. Partially because the way I wanted him was so different, so new to me. (The only other person I’d ever had feelings remotely similar for...we never slept together.) And partially because I may or may not have taken a little something to help calm my nerves. Either way, I enjoyed every minute of it, romantic or otherwise.

Well, almost. He did have this peculiar habit of randomly putting his finger in my mouth. Naturally, my first thought was, “Oh, he wants me to suck his finger, maybe bite it. Ok. They do that in porn sometimes. I don’t see the point, but sure, why not.” Only once it was in there, he just kept moving it around like he had no idea what the point was either. A small, and endlessly amusing, price to pay for the rest, really.

The next morning was fine at first, but with hours to drive and topics apparently thin on the ground, there wasn’t much talking. I was trying to fight my way out of this particular limbo – you know the one? Where you’ve slept with your friend, fallen even harder for them and are so terrified of spooking this person that’s even more afraid of relationships than you are, that you’re stuck in your own head analyzing every single thing they say and every single thing they do and attempting to act accordingly, thus making the situation more awkward than it would have been in the first place.

Yeah, that one.

The normal me would have slipped a hand in his lap and been like, “So...how was the sex? Which part did you like best? Do you think we could forgo the finger in the mouth thing? Word.”

The new flustered and anxious me was more like, “So...great sex last night! Hey, I love that song...turn it up!” Then there was singing.

I did, finally, manage to grab his hand and hold it awhile...attempting to convey what I couldn’t seem to say out loud: “I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been, but somehow...I’ve also never been so happy. I hope you feel the same.”

The physical contact reassured me that he was really there, we still had days left together and it definitely wasn’t the sex that I wanted so badly. And I promised myself (because that had worked so well in the past) that I wouldn’t think about how it might end until I had to. Until I was boarding a plane or until he told me he didn’t want me. Whichever came first.

The leap

We stare at each other across the table.

Nothing is going to happen unless I make the first move and that’s fitting – our entire relationship is based on the dance...around and around, him wanting me to take the lead, me wanting him to do the same. In the end, with every argument and every decision, I always acquiesce, and I’m sure this will be no different.

I’m tipsy, a little sluggish, and though he’s participated in the earlier merriment, he’s completely clearheaded. This, more so than anything, makes me nervous. I’m wondering if I’m reading his signals wrong. And they have to be signals because he would never come out and say what’s on his mind. Dragging the truth, dragging any sort of feeling or desire out of him is exhausting. This may be the first time we’ve physically met, but I’ve known him long enough to understand what he may not: As long as someone else is making the decision, he’s not really responsible for what follows.

Be that as it may, I want him.

We move to the living room and he deliberately sits on the far side of the couch and grins. It’s clearly a challenge and I decide I’m tired of playing games.

I crook my finger. “Come here.”

“What”, he says, still smiling. He slides a little closer and I meet him halfway.

It’s only the second time in my entire life that I’ve kissed someone I have genuine feelings for...and though I’m not prepared for it, I’m immediately aware of the difference.

He pulls back, hands on either side of my face, our breath still mingling and says, “It’s been a long time coming. Three years...”

I’m suddenly too wrapped up in what’s happening to be rational, to be me. As I follow him up the hall, I try to tell myself one last time that it doesn’t mean anything. But when he kisses me again I forget all my promises, all my warnings...

And I think, “How could he not feel this? He must – it’s unreal.”

100 Words: The beginning

I sit around the fire with a group that thinks they know me. Someone poses the question: What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?

Responses are as expected – sex, alcohol, arrests. When it’s my turn I follow suit, telling a drunken story they’ve heard before. But all the while I’m wondering who else, like me, is hiding the truth.

*****

I don’t write fiction. I write about my life. And for a long time I’ve been omitting a rather significant detail.

What’s the craziest thing I’ve ever done? I fell for someone I’d never met.

I fell for one of you.

Double sided

We trudge up the gravel drive, disheveled and cold in what’s left of our costumes. The green felt hat in my hand is soaked round the edges after being knocked from my head and into a puddle by the witch at my side. Christine giggles about nothing in particular, still holding a beer and a stolen bucket of pretzels, refusing to believe the party has ended before daylight.

As we near the front door she’s overcome with laughter, clutching her sides and dancing in circles. I still don’t see what’s so amusing, but of course I’m nowhere close to her level of inebriation. Perhaps it’s that on the other side of that door my family is asleep, blissfully unaware of the ruckus that’s about to happen, and she’s always rather amused by the discomfort of others.

Darkness and a cold nose greet me at the door. I pat Tank’s head, pausing to listen before I allow her inside. A symphony of heavy snoring, his and hers, creates a welcome cover for the racket of Christine’s entrance, but I’m not sure how long it will last.

I push her to the bathroom first and quickly get into warmer clothing. The bedroom is a disaster – costume packages, tights turned inside-out, jeans and jewelry cover the floor. I start tossing things toward the closet and shoving what I can into corners to clear a path before she comes back and stomps on it all.

We pass each other in the kitchen – one tiptoeing, the other galloping. I spend as much time in the bathroom as possible, hoping that if she wakes them she’ll do it when I’m in another room and clearly not at fault, but all seems quiet when I poke my head out the door and listen. “Maybe she’s already passed out”, I think, crossing my fingers and making my way back.

But of course that isn’t the case because there she is, sprawled on the floor of the dining room, grinning at me like a toddler, shoving pretzels in her mouth and Tank’s mouth, alternately, but with equal enthusiasm.

“What the hell”, I hiss at her, throwing my hands up in exasperation.

“Me and Tank Tank are eating pretzels”, she slurs loudly. “So good...so good!” And the giggling starts again in earnest.

I can’t help but laugh a little. She looks so ridiculous. “Get up from there, you idiot!”

She stumbles up and into my room, launching herself upon the bed so hard that she rolls and hits the wall, scattering pretzels all over my sheets. I sigh, turn out the light and crawl in next to her. Now that she’s stationary, I relax a bit. We laugh, swapping memories from the party, and I shush her when she gets too loud. Parts of my body are still cold, as if there are icy hands pressing against my skin, and no matter how many layers I add they aren’t thawing out. As she chatters away, I try to decide if it’s worth it to find my electric blanket.

“Did you hear that”, she asks.

“What?”

Before she can answer, there’s a loud banging on the window.

“It’s Claire”, Christine shouts. “Hold on, Claire! She’s coming! Quick, go let her in!”

I jump up and run for the front door. Claire charges in clutching a white trash bag full of clanking bottled beer, the tiny cape on her Wonder Woman costume from the children’s section billowing out behind her. She collapses on the floor of my closet, crying.

Christine immediately goes into “comfort mode” which, more or less, sounds like: “this is what’s happened to me in my life and it’s so much worse than what’s happened in yours so suck it up and let’s talk about me some more”. I sit silently on the edge of the bed, watching them, wondering when it’ll be over and I can get some rest. Christine is repetitive when she’s drunk and after locking eyes with an exasperated Claire, I finally say, “It’s not a pissing contest.”

“I know”, Christine replies, though I doubt she has any idea what I mean.

I manage to get Claire out of her costume and into a pair of my pajamas, thinking I’ll put her to bed across the hall. But no, suddenly they’re both filled with good spirits and renewed energy.

“Let’s do something crazy”, Claire says, running over and turning on my bedroom light.

“I’m down”, Christine shouts back.

“It’s freezing and I don’t think it’s a good idea”, I say, inching my way toward the bed. My reluctance is like a red flag and they both turn to me, eyes narrowed. “You guys, I’ve got to pick up my kid in the morning and I’ve already taken off my bra...”

“So have we”, Claire shouts, lifting her shirt and shaking her boob at me. “Look at my nipples!” Christine lifts hers as well and they chase me around the room waving their tits and shouting, “Show us your nipples!”

Twenty minutes later I’m rattling through the woods in a “stolen” Ranger, the trash bag full of beer knocking against my left side. After being tackled and assaulted, dry humped and yelled at, I finally gave in. They decide that we’re going to a high school party around the corner...in our pajamas. As Claire careens around fallen trees and Christine bounces and shouts, I hang on to the rail for dear life and watch each breath as it leaves my body, the mist curling into darkness.

We arrive at the house and I’m relieved to see that the party is already over. The house is dark and only two cars remain in the driveway. Claire pulls right up to the steps and, while the engine idles loudly, they argue about who should beat on the door. I say nothing until they turn around to go back.

“Can we take the road this time, please?”

“Pussy”, Christine shouts.

“Fine”, Claire says, glancing over at me. “You aren’t having fun, are you?”

“Sure”, I reply without conviction. Any other answer would probably lead to Christine attacking me with her chest again, knocking me off the side of the Ranger and onto the blurring asphalt. I’ll most likely end up with pneumonia as it is, so avoiding road rash seems like the smart thing to do.

We park and I walk fast toward home, hoping they don’t think of something else “fun” to do before I make it through the door. I’m going to sleep and I’ll lock them out if I have to. But though they swap ideas back and forth, and taunt me for being a spoilsport, they seem to have lost the majority of their energy.

I crawl in the bed, shivering. I’m done trying to keep them quiet and if they wake up everyone, so be it. It’s on their heads.

Christine giggles next to me and Claire curls up on top of the piles of clothes and shoes in my closet, talking to her ex boyfriend on the phone in hushed tones. I hear my bedroom door creak and clearly the others hear it too, and know what’s coming, because Claire attempts to shut herself in my closet and Christine dives under the comforter.

My mother peers through the crack in the door, glasses reflecting the light she’s just turned on in the kitchen. When she sees that I know she’s there, she opens it all the way and glances around at the mess suspiciously. “What’s going on it here?”

I sigh and give her a look that clearly says, “Help, I’m being tortured”. She smiles at me – always delighted by my misery. Christine pokes her head cautiously out from under the covers and says, “Hey Aunt Karen”, before collapsing into giggles once again.

Mom points her finger at her and says, “Shut up! That’s enough!”

“Yes, ma’am”, Christine shouts, diving back under the covers. She is overcome with glee at finally being caught.

Mom sees Claire, still huddling in the closet on the phone. “What’s it doing in the closet?”

“It’s talking on the phone”, I say, as if that explains it all.

She shakes her head, points another threatening finger at Christine and walks out, closing the door behind her. Moments later I hear the swish of the broom sweeping across the dining room and I know she’s cleaning up pretzels.

I lay still and wait for the giggling to subside, ignoring her until I hear the tell-tale heavy breathing. She’s finally passed out. Claire hears it too and waves goodbye, making her way across the hall to an empty room, still talking on the phone. “Just like in high school”, I think, falling asleep moments later.

*****

“They kept me up until 3:30 and you know it was freezing!”

My new neighbor, Crystal, nods sympathetically. She and her son are going trick-or-treating with me and my daughter. In fact, since they moved in six months ago, we’ve been spending a lot of time together...much to the irritation of my friends.

“It’s not that I don’t want to have fun”, I continue, “It’s just that I was done for the night and I didn’t want to wake up the whole damn household. And then of course she was way more drunk than I was and getting on my last fucking nerve. I had to get up the next day to go get the kid, you know? We’re not 17 anymore.”

“I get it”, she says. “I would’ve been irritated too.”

When we arrive at my friend’s neighborhood, we all climb up on a trailer filled with hay. My cousin Ashley is there with her kids and it’s a full ride. The four-wheeler pulling the group weaves through the thickening crowd of trick-or-treaters.

It’s a gorgeous evening and the kids are having a blast. I’m sitting on bales of hay with other moms, actually enjoying their company – laughing at the kids and watching the leaves go by as we speed on to another street. I realize that I’m having just as much fun on this family friendly hayride as I did at the party the other night...and definitely more fun than I had after the party.

*****

I didn’t expect to like Crystal when she moved in, simply because I hadn’t met another mother that I enjoy hanging out with. My experiences were limited to being judged by them for being single or being bored by their constant talk about kids and husbands. I found out, though, that we have a lot in common. She’s not obsessed with her child and she still knows how to have fun – we spend as much time hanging out with our kids as we do on our own, going out and cutting up.

I thought that maybe I wasn’t having fun with Claire and Christine because I’m getting too old for that kind of nonsense, but now I don’t believe that’s entirely the case. When I wanted to quit that night and they wouldn’t let me, it was just like every other time they’ve harassed me for not being able to go out because I’m at home parenting...or talked shit because I’m too tired from working all day and taking care of the kid to entertain them. They never take no for an answer.

It’s been refreshing to meet someone like Crystal – someone who accepts and understands both parts of me, who lets me be the one I need to be at just the right time. And, of course, it also helps that she makes a kick ass batch of Jell-O shooters.

I’m not abandoning the others, far from it. But I think we may be long overdue for that “there’s a time and a place” talk. Maybe they’ll accept the calmer, mom side of me if I stop giving in, and show them that I’ve accepted it too.