Finals: NYC Midnight Madness 2010 Short Story Competition

Genre: Romance
Subject: Blindness

Left Hand Circles
Synopsis: Blinded by the confusion of adolescence, three friends grow up exploring the boundaries of friendship and lust all the while in search of love.

“When it hurts at least you know you’ve loved, right?” I asked peering into the depths of his eyes, searching for his heart.

“I guess.” Brett’s response was measured and his eyes dodged mine, “There’s no easy explanation for love.”

He wrapped his strong arms around me and I melted into their warmth. His chest was already damp from my tears. I had come straight to his house after having dinner with Nate. I couldn’t call ahead like I usually did. And I would have beat on his door until it opened or my hands were bloodied and swollen, whichever came first. He had seen the headlights in his driveway and stood waiting on his stoop. I collapsed into his embrace.

“Megan.” Was all he managed, choking on his own emotion. He already knew everything. At least I wouldn’t have to explain that one of our closest friends capably played with my heart leaving it in ruins again.

******

Brett, Nate and I had grown up together in the same small town. Living in a rundown apartment complex in the armpit of Ypsilanti Michigan we quickly got acquainted and began spending hours on mischievous end together. Our parents were hard working blue collar employees and it was their absence while struggling to provide a comfortable life for us that bonded us to each other.

Things got a little odd when we hit puberty and I started developing what they called 'traitor lumps' on my chest because they betrayed my gender but I fired right back poking my own fun at their deepening and cracking voices. During those years, because of the depth of our friendship, at times we got lost in confusion. Nate once dared me to show him my budding boobs saying I would be his first.

“C’mon Megan, who cares? We’re your closest friends. It’s not like we haven’t seen you with your shirt off before!”

“Whatever Nate, we were six year olds running through sprinklers. BIG difference now.”

Brett’s cheeks burned a brilliant shade of crimson, “I don’t want to see her traitor lumps any way dude. That’s sick! You’re the one that said Bridget Fox has the biggest tits in school, why don’t you try her.”

“Ooooo Bretty has a crush on Bridget!” Nate taunted thumping Brett’s shoulder hard while winking at me.

“Shut up pervert!” he snapped.

I quickly raised my shirt over my head in an attempt to avert the escalating tension. Flashing my atrocious training bra, I turned and ran from the room. They giggled like school girls with dumb founded pubescent delight and I called over my shoulder, “I’d never let Bridget show my best friends their first set of boobs!”

It wasn’t until high school that we grew apart somewhat. Brett and Nate were on the football team and I, devoid of any competent athletic skill pursued academia and the arts. Brett always walked me to school in the mornings but once on campus never gave me a second more of his time. Often I caught his gaze across the classroom though, or in the hallways and sometimes even during his football games. I never thought much of it but rather believed it was our mutual understanding as friends.

Nate grew into a six foot something, tall, dark and handsome type, the type that makes any school girl quiver. I started getting butterflies when he was around me and I hated that my hormones were interfering with our thriving friendship. I started to avoid him at school and around our apartment complex assured he was now too popular to notice.

“Megan!” I heard a voice call after me. Turning I saw Nate trotting my direction in the dusk of the fall afternoon. “Wait up.”

“Where’s Brett?” I asked when he finally stepped in stride with me not slowing my pace for an instant.

“Uh, he’s, I have no idea.” He said disarming me with his charming smile.

“That’s a rarity.” I replied not disguising the sarcasm.

“Hey, c’mon play nice beautiful. Why don’t you seem to have time for me lately?”

“I’m making time right now.”

His pace slowed and he grabbed my shoulder to turn my body towards his. “Look I know, I mean, I want you to know…I wanted you to be the first to know –”

“What?” with his hand still resting lightly on my shoulder, despite my guarded effort, I was melting into his sincerity.

“I-I, got a scholarship to play football next year at the University of Michigan and,” his voice trailed away and his eyes darted between my chest and face.

Though I tried I couldn’t conceal the giggle that bubbled up inwardly. It slipped past my lips and spilled into the awkward stillness. “What?”

His gaze lingered longer and his lips parted. With the hand resting on my shoulder he pulled me into him and our lips met. We kissed wildly in blind youthful lust. Discreetly sliding his left hand under my shirt he squeezed and caressed my breasts, tugging at the top of my bra just enough to tickle the soft pink skin with his fingertips. He eased out smirking now, “I haven’t forgotten when you showed me my first set of titties.”

“Ahem, technically you still haven’t seen them.” I teased pulling his arm from my shirt.

We walked the rest of the way hand in hand. And he kissed me again when we reached my front door, promising me he would come back from college for me someday. In confused naivety I thought what I felt for him was love, I thought he loved me. But later that year he proved me wrong by falling for the captain of the cheerleading squad, Bridget Fox.

******

The voicemail was left with his usual playful banter, “Megs, its Brett. I was just calling to see if you wanted a ride tonight to the ol’ class reunion. Give me a call back babe. Oh yeah and Nate called earlier and wants to meet up for a drink first. That won’t be awkward. Call me when you get a chance.”

In the years that followed graduation Brett and I still talked at least once a week. He was just about as unlucky in love as I had proven to be, so it seemed we routinely took turns consoling each other through heartache. I’d stage dirty romance porn movie nights during his breakups and we’d watch his favorite films, drink beer and eat McDonalds til sunrise. And when it was my turn, he’d take me to the city to wine, dine and dance.

Brett answered my call with his routine “What’s happenin’?”

“Good times I hope!” I replied.

“Yeah, should be. Oh my god what are you wearing?” he teased in a mimicking tone.

“Something totally slutty to distract everyone from the fact that I’ve made absolutely nothing of my life yet.”

He laughed, “Give yourself some credit Megs, none of us are doing what we thought we would at this point. You know I wanted to be playing or coaching ball somewhere and I’m just a gym class teacher.”

“You’re a gym class hero Brett.” I cooed like his high school posse of adoring pubescent girls. “Besides I want to make Nate regret.”

“Tisk, tisk.”

“Meow. What time are you picking me up lovey?”

“Be careful. I like you frisky and I’ll be there in an hour.”

“An hour, good god! I’ve got to go get my pretty on.”

For the remaining fifty eight and a half minutes I poured over my hair and makeup like I never had before. I knew that the black skirt coupled with stiletto sandals and red spaghetti strap tank was classic but sexy enough to accentuate my womanly shape. The thought of seeing Nate brought back the same sensation in the pit of my stomach I had felt years ago.

Brett arrived punctually to pick me up. With raised eyebrows and a look of wonder he softly muttered, “I think I may bet the luckiest guy in town tonight.” He gently kissed my bare shoulder. It was an odd gesture but in the anticipation and eagerness of the evening it sent heat through the core of my soul, calming my nerves with his confidence.

“And with any luck, maybe I’ll get lucky!”

“Lucky with who?”

I could only smile but he read it.

“Need I remind you –”

“That he’s still your best friend?” I interrupted.

“No. You claimed that title long ago.” He said flatly.

We met Nate at the only pub in our worn out town worth anything. I could see his strong broad shoulders leaning confidently on the bar the minute we walked in. He caught my gaze and smiled that seductive easy grin. I couldn’t hold the intensity and shifted my eyes to Brett.

Playfully patting my butt he whispered, “Atta girl, he already winked at you and visually undressed you.”

“What? He did not. Shut up!”

“Megan, wow, is it good to see you.” Nate said as we approached “And Brett, life seems to be treating you well. You don’t look a day over 18.” He chided.

I spent the next hour molesting my full grown man crush with my eyes, the way his lips parted revealing perfectly aligned and polished teeth. I watched his hands as they gestured during stories and imagined his fingers running through my hair, tracing over my vulnerable, naked skin. The more we drank the more the chemistry festered between us. I vaguely remember Brett scooting back his stool and saying something about not wanting to be the fifth wheel and heading to the high school for the reunion. Nate offered to pay and leaning into me asked, “Hang back and ride over with me?”

“Yeah, okay.” I answered Nate softly. “We’ll meet you there.” I said searching Brett’s eyes and finding something in them I had failed to see before but in my intoxication couldn’t comprehend.

“Yeah.” Brett shrugged and I watched as his shoulders slumped slightly when he turned to leave.

“We’re finally alone.” Nate smiled. “I wasn’t sure that was going to happen or if you two were, I don’t know, together or something?”

“Oh my god, no, no, no.” I could hear my words slurring and made a poised effort to articulate,

“Brett and I are super close but not like that.” I giggled nervously and continued rambling about how unique and amazing our relationship was. After a minute Nate put his hand on my thigh and the warmth of his palm silenced my chatter.

Bringing his lips to mine he whispered, “I’ve never forgotten our first kiss.”

“You mean our only kiss?”

When we got to his car he pinned my body between the car and his own. We kissed just as we had that night in our youth. I felt like I was an 18 year old virgin all over again.

“Come home with me.” I whispered through our passion. “I want to show you something.”

His eyes glinted in the streetlight and a sly half smile spread across his dampened lips. There was an overwhelming sense of unsurity between us but at the same time I felt more alive than I ever remembered. He guided me easily into the passenger side of the car and reclined the chair. Straddling over me he closed the door and locked it.

“Show me” he heaved.

I slowly lifted the bottom of my tank top up exposing my stomach before I felt the brisk night air slide over my breasts followed by the warmth of his tongue and mouth over my nipple, his free hand cupped the other. As he slipped his zipper down and lifted my skirt, I felt a smooth metal band brush my thigh. How had I failed to remember? God, why hadn’t I noticed? Placing my hand on top of his as it moved back to massage my exposed breast, I confirmed the band was indeed on his ring finger. He slid inside me the rush of pleasure overtook any logic that had started to form.

When we finished his experienced hands replaced my disheveled clothing and he blurted out with arrogant liquid courage, “I never leave business unfinished Megan, especially when it looks as good as you.”

“Unfinished business? That’s all this is, that’s all I am to you?” I floundered to understand, my senses also dulled by alcohol.

“I’ve got a life of my own. But this, we can do this anytime I’m in town or you’re in the city. I mean, it’s not that I don’t care about you but,” he sighed combing his left hand through the side of his unkempt hair. I grabbed it and held it mid air.

“It’s complicated.” I said cocking my head and studying the wedding band.

“Yes.”

“I thought you and Britt split up a year or more ago?”

“It’s complicated.” He used my words against me now, “I mean when you have kids and all.”

“Right. So why isn’t she here with you?”

“At the class reunion? Um, the kids had stuff going on so she chose to stay.”

“Oh. Yeah, makes sense. Uh, can you take me home now?”

“I thought you already showed me what you were taking me home to see?” he callously flirted.

“You know, actually, just drop me off at Brett’s.”

“Okay. That won’t be awkward at all.” His voice laden with sarcasm.

“Yeah, interesting, he shared that sentiment earlier tonight.”

When the headlights flashed in Brett’s window he came to the front door looking confused. Relieved that he had chosen to skip the reunion I bolted from the car without so much as a good bye and collapsed in Brett’s sturdy embrace.

“Megan, what happened?”

With my vision blurred by tears I finally knew what I had seen concealed deeply in his green eyes. “There is a very fine line between loving someone and being in love. You know?”

“No, not really.” He said sweeping my hair with the back of his fingers over my shoulder.

“That line is guarded by blindness. How could I miss it all these years and you were right in front of me?”

“I’m not following you.” His eyes moistened.

“Brett, I’ve always loved you –”

“Just not been in love with me?” He forced a smile.

“I didn’t know what I was looking for, what love even looked like. I was going in circles, the kind that distinguish those that love this,” I motioned over my trembling body, “And the one that loves this.” I said resting my hand on my heart.

Laying his hand on top of mine he said “I would willingly spend the rest of my life waiting for this, for your heart. Yours is the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

NYC Midnight Madness 2010 Short Story Competition

Heat 12:
Genre - Drama
Subject - A Photographer

The Element(s) of Freedom
Synopsis: While in the process of completing a final assignment for her photography class, a young lady takes an unexpected soul journey.

“And the day came when the risk it took to remain tightly closed in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom. This is the element of freedom.” Alicia Keys

May 13th:

At long last I have an idea for my final assignment, thanks to Alicia Keys and the birthday flowers my Aunt sent this weekend. This photojournalism final has proven to shipwreck my photography and life more than I anticipated. After wasting half of my assigned time deliberating, agonizing, brainstorming…Who am I kidding, PROCRASTINATING, I’ve finally chained myself to a topic. I’ve decided that over the remaining days I will attempt to go with a classic and extremely unemotional theme documenting the blooming of a yellow rose bud in my flower arrangement. The uninspiring idea seems to be a metaphor of my life, sort of tongue in cheek honestly. Because of that I feel confident I can do it justice and once I get this damn project done I will be free from the drudgery of assignments, deadlines and subjective grades for an entire summer. Ah the sweet element of freedom indeed. Focus Sarah, focus.

Hitting Control and S on the keyboard, Sarah pushed her chair back from the desk and drew air in through a small opening in her full red lips. It was the only efficient opening left to obtain oxygen from today since her sinuses were now thoroughly clogged. Pressing her thumb and index finger to the bridge of her nose no longer pacified the throbbing of her head and the flesh above her lip felt as raw as she imagined it might be had she been using sand paper as tissues over the last 24 hours.

“The combination of this assignment and cold just might be the death of me,” she muttered sarcastically and grabbed the vase of flowers before heading to the kitchen for coffee and her Nikon D90 camera.

It was the end of the spring semester and all that ominously barricaded Sarah Webber from her summer retreat was this assignment and an epic head cold. She wanted so desperately to knock this final out of the park and pay tribute to her father’s legacy. She had spent the last four days agonizing over it. The more she toyed with ideas and concepts the less inspired and creative they felt. On the verge of utter despair and questioning her merit as a photojournalist she was interrupted by a brisk rap on her door. A happy little flower delivery man had stood there with outstretched arms holding an arrangement of flowers. A lone yellow rose bud caught her eye in the center of the vase and it was there that her lack-luster concept was born.

Sighing she set the vase down on the cluttered countertop. The beams of morning sunshine seemed to part the surrounding chaos like the waters of the Red Sea in Biblical times, as they rushed in through a nearby window. “At least the lighting is brilliant,” she thought and picked up her camera. Focusing in on the tightly closed rose bud Sarah snapped a couple of shots, zooming in with each successive click. Pausing in cynical revelry she stared at the little bud through the camera lens, “Ha, if this isn’t an accurate representation of my creativity, all clamped down and locked up. Shall we bloom together Rosie?” The austere posture of the rose seemed to bite back in ridicule. Second guessing the virility of her decision and discouraged, Sarah grabbed her travel coffee mug, filled it to the brim and headed out to survive the rigors of her day.

“I’m challenging a rose bud? Awesome.” The door clicked behind her.

May 14th:

Ah, so the photojournalism assignment is underway. I found that my first round of pictures looked best in black and white when I manipulated them in Photoshop yesterday and I also found them extremely ordinary and boring. Score one for the snobbery of the bud, zero for Sarah. I’m affectionately dubbing my bud ‘Rosie’. Ah so clever, I know. But it’s par for the lack of creativity course and right on track in the irony department.

In comparing today’s photos to yesterdays, any definite change is indecipherable. I’m beginning to wonder on many levels what the required elements are for blooming. What is it within this living being that prompts it to open up and spread out in cascading beauty? Light, nutrients, is that all it really needs…I wonder? Note to self: Research.

I have wasted most of my assigned time digging deep for a concept of riveting interest and the only one I tend to relish is whether or not I’m even cut out for Photography in the first place? I mean, in retrospect my decision to attend the community college was entirely an irrational one. Resolving to enroll the day of my father’s funeral, in the midst of remorse and bitter grief is hardly categorized as anything more than that. I had always wanted to make him proud, and at that moment standing there by his graveside, with a lifetime of his photographs surrounding me, I thought that would be the best way to do it. I’m sure in my sophomore year of college I’m not already supposed to feel imprisoned by my degree. That comes later when one is all grown up and deadlocked in career drudgery, right?

Ah, but I digress - again. And with two days left I feel like Rosie is determined to stay clamped shut just to spite me and my procrastinating ways.

The trash beside Sarah’s desk was now full of soiled tissues and her nose was officially Rudolf red. “I’m certain I could lead Santa’s sleigh,” she thought as she glanced at her reflection in the darkened window beside her desk, “Lead it no particular direction but lead it just the same.” With that Sarah sauntered to her room hoping to find some relief in medicine and rest.

May 14 ¾:

Yes, I’m back already. I can’t sleep a credit to this epic head cold that is messing with more than my sinuses. I’ve decided to give Rosie some 24/7 artificial stimulation by way of my desk lamp. I’m hoping to SHOVE her in the direction of blooming, in the most nurturing of ways. My artificial stimulant, coffee.

I decided while I was awake to snap some low light pictures and play with reflections. Fascinating how lighting can affect the desired subject of a photo. These could perhaps be some of my best photos yet. Nothing compared to my Father’s work though, his pictures were anything but ordinary. They were a glimpse into his soul, to the way he saw life, the way he saw us. To me it seemed almost effortless how he could capture the best of everything from a brilliantly painted sky at sunset - bright orange hues and pinks melting into each other amidst their airy cloud counterparts, to a the simplest luxury in life, like a pair of shoes thoughtlessly kicked aside by the front door. The lens of his camera was a second set of eyes for him and the way he captured life was enchanting.

He hung a quote on the wall of his photo studio that read, “I see before me a man, with all his flaws and all his goodness; I simply see a man.” and when I was younger I would read that relentlessly trying to grasp its meaning. But I never understood it until I looked into the eyes of one of his photographed subjects. He had taken a trip to India to tell the story of a commoner there. En route to a tiny village center he paused to photograph a small boy begging by the side of the road. He held out his hands to my father and lifted his tear stained, dirt streaked face to the camera. Most stunning though, was the tangible reflection of hope in his eyes. I felt I could really see his soul like he was standing right in front of me. Dad had a knack for capturing personality, the human spirit, life unfiltered…

May 15th:

I woke up this morning with my head pressed to the keyboard and a whole bunch of eeeeggggrrhhh and many other choice letters filling my document. The NyQuil must have finally kicked in. The good news is that my 24 hour “nurturing” experiment seemed to have worked!! With one day left, Rosie has begun to extend her soft yellow petals outward. And, adding to my optimism the pictures I took last night are genius! I mean the lighting and reflection, the angle of the camera made the ordinary look like; dare I venture the adjective, extraordinary? I think I’m finally getting somewhere with this.

And, for now I must pull my battle haggard body somewhere too, class starts in 20 minutes.

It was all Sarah could do to pull her hair up in a ponytail and dab some concealor on her reddened nose. The coffee pot had the remains of yesterday’s stale, corrosive caffeination it and she mindlessly poured it into a mug, microwaved it and headed out the door. “This is really too much.” She thought as she trudged toward her car.

May 16th:

Wow what a difference a little sunshine and nurturing make! Rosie is in full bloom and we almost have a photography series. I am also feeling a little more human today. THANK GOD for Mom’s secret recipe chicken soup! She dropped some off today for me after calling yesterday and saying I sounded like, I believe was her precise choice of words were, ‘Death warmed over’. And then when she saw me she said it again, only this time that I looked it. Thanks Mom.

Anyway, she brought with her this odd photo of me. She said she thought it would help the creative process. It’s a picture Dad took of me just days before he died. And you know how I was saying he could see into someone’s soul with that camera of his? Well I didn’t like what I saw of mine. I always resented the way he hid behind that thing. How he refused to take time off from his trips and events or breakthrough leads for the important days of our lives. I used to stare that dumb camera down to show him how unimpressed I was. That he would think he could capture a memory of me to make up for all the time he wasn’t spending actually making them alongside me was infuriating! He saw the world and captured on film some of the heights and depths of humanity and the human experience but he missed out on us, on me!

How I resented him that day, the day before I graduated from high school. He got a call to ‘duty’ to document a day in the life of an American Hero, before leaving for war. He promised me, “Sarah, I’ll be back in less than 24 hours, I’d never miss my only daughter’s graduation.” He was only supposed to fly to a base, spend a few hours following a solider through their regimen and then fly home safely. That was his promise. “I’ll be back hours before the ceremony, I promise.” In classic style he held up his camera to document the look on my face at that moment. He said, “You’ll look back and laugh at this photo someday love, when I include it in your wedding collage, you might even blush.”

“I’m not laughing Dad.” She traced her fingers around the edge of the photo as the tears pooled in her eyes. The face of the girl in the photo blurred. She was younger then, her hair was blonder but the scorn caught in her eyes almost burned through the paper, through the photo itself. “I’m sorry Daddy, I’m so sorry that was the way you saw me last. I’m so sorry.”

He never made it home. The naval base said he was assigned to shadow a lieutenant readying his troops for the war zone. He followed them for meals, he followed them to briefings, and he followed them to the shooting range for target practice. They told us it was a freak accident that it never happens. They told us that he wasn’t paying attention. That he was engrossed in his documentation, hiding behind the camera and that he just got too close. They told us he didn’t suffer. That he died the instant his heart caught that ricocheted bullet.

Mom said today that I’ve been much like Rosie ever since.

Unable to see through tears, Sarah picked up her camera with disregard. Adjusting nothing she began madly snapping shots of her yellow rose, from every angle, direction and in as many lighting situations as she could. And later when sorting through the photographs she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the darkened window behind the rose. She recognized her Father’s furrowed, determined brow behind the camera. And she saw for the first time, the simplicity of blooming.

May 17th:

The day has arrived. The assignment is due and Rosie has put on quite a spectacular show. I’m happy to report that I have completed the, eh let’s stretch and call it, compelling photo series of a rose in bloom boldly crowned with the title, The Element of Freedom. Perhaps I didn’t capture the essence of humanity in anyone’s eyes or the desperate plight of struggle but what I found in Rosie indeed encompasses it.

There is an aching potential in all of us, this desire to be utilized and to be seen, to be beautiful and contribute something of beauty to society and life. So often the human struggle begins and ends with the means of discovery and unlocking that potential. And sometimes the risk it takes to expose that raw element of our core being seems more painful than missing out on meeting the fullness of the life we could attain. The unknown is just that. Who knows what obstacles, barriers, rejections and hardships we may or may not face on the road to blooming?

In my research I found that a flower simply requires warmth and light and just the right amount of water to bloom. Our souls require the warmth of relationship, the light that exposes, teaches and leads us and just the right amount of tears in order to reach our potential. And when you find that staying tightly closed in a bud of mediocrity is more painful than the risk that’s required to bloom, then and truly then, you will know the element of freedom.

NYC Midnight Madness 2009

Life on Fire

Synopsis: A young woman’s fire could destroy all she holds dear from the inside out.

The smoke and the flames burned my eyes, stung my nostrils. I wanted to see it, I wanted to smell and take in the pain, the punishment. I wanted to fully engage this emotion with every sensory outlet in my body. I deserved it. I needed the closure. These units were filled with boxes, belongings, with life and other people’s lives. One of the units burning contained us and our memories. I hoped as I watched our belongings burn I could purge the pain that seeped out of every pore in my body.

***

He entered my world during a difficult time in my life. My husband’s business was birthed, which for some inexplicable reason thrust me into a personal crossroads and crisis. I was changing and the external stress in our world masked the symptoms. We packed up what we needed of our four thousand square foot suburban home and took the profits from the sale of the house for the company. We moved to a quaint apartment downtown. The rest of our life’s belongings and memories were crammed into a storage unit.

I met him there, at the small storage unit next to our own. I remember when I pulled around the corner he was standing just outside about to raise the door. He saw my car and startled, slamming the door that was partially opened back to the ground. I tried to put him at ease by smiling and waving as I backed into the parking spot. He stood, smiled shyly and waved back. He was 6 foot something with an athletic body. His eyes were as blue and clear as a perfect mid-summer sky. He was wearing a black baseball cap on his head and an oversized white t-shirt draped over his frame. The skin on his face was pock marked with scars, marking what I assumed was a fierce bout with acne during adolescence. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips. As I stepped out of the car, our eyes locked and just as quietly and quickly so did our souls.

“Hi neighbor. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Jen.”

Removing the cigarette from his perfectly shaped lips he allowed the smile that had begun forming to spread across his face as he extended his hand, “Justin. Nice to meet you. What brings you and your fancy car here? Isn’t this a place for half-way transients like myself?”

“Ha, hardly! It’s for hard working business owners who give up everything, save a scrap of their sanity, for a new business venture.”

“Uh huh.” He said as he took me in inch by inch, “Do you want a hand unloading your car? You never know might salvage a bit of your sanity.”

It seemed a friendly offer and since I was intrigued by this stranger I agreed. The rest of our conversation was easy and rapidly turned flirtatious. I began to sense the chemistry and tension stirring. I was electrified by him and terrified at the same time. I was a married woman. No man since my husband Bryant had so adeptly been able to knife into my psyche.

Once the last box was unloaded he turned to me and lightly cupping my elbow with his hand caught my eye. I knew then. Something became clear to both of us during that fleeting touch.

“I’ll be seeing you neighbor?”

“I hope so.”

From that moment forward I found myself a fool, a light hearted school girl. I often caught myself thinking of him and our chance meeting. I knew I was standing at the threshold of something enticing and reckless. I couldn’t reconcile the two extremes and instead of fleeing the situation I dug in, stubbornly.

I ran into Justin again a couple weeks later. He was leaning up against the shared wall between our units. My heart drummed wildly against the cavity of my chest. His lips parted as I pulled in, it seemed he’d been expecting me.

“Jen.”

“Fancy meeting you again! What are you doing here?”

“Probably the same thing as you. A need.”

Instantly I sensed the implications of that statement. Yes, a need, on so many different levels. My cheeks burned reflecting the flame igniting in the pit of my stomach. I needed to find out what was driving this insanity in me, making a fool of my rationale. I wanted to explore this feeling. I needed to get closer to him.

“I’m constantly realizing I packed too many of my ‘needs’ into this shed.” I said as I stooped over to unlock and raise the door. He was quiet for a minute while he watched me and when I stood he was facing me.

His eyes softened as he reached for my hand, “Look, I’m not great at playing the conventional games or charades that many play when it comes to boy likes girl. It’s a waste of time. I like you. It’s crazy to come out and say it this soon but it’s the way I am. Cut to the chase. If you’re not interested I won’t chase.”

What? Was this really happening? Did I hear that right? His blunt honesty caught me off guard like a slap in the face. I stopped thinking clearly, stopped thinking at all. I knew I needed to respond but my mind was like grid lock traffic. Nothing was moving. So instead of speaking I pressed up against him and melted into his kiss and embrace.

He gently eased back. “You’re not much for games either?”

There wasn’t much conversation between us after that. The relationship was almost entirely physical. We worked out a schedule of random times to meet at our units. Ironically we often ended up on the couch Bryant and I had first made out on. We would animalisticly go at it in the dark with the beams of sunlight streaming in around the closed door. What he could do to me was as close to an out of body experience as I’ve come. What we had was not only skin deep but spiritual. No words were necessary we just knew how to move through the dance of physical love together. I was crazy about him. I was going crazy but it felt right. It seemed as though he needed this as much as I did.

Over time my curiosity about Justin aroused. I wanted to know his likes, dislikes, emotions. I wanted to get to him like he was getting to me. The physical pull without the emotional connection was already stronger than gravity. It was too late to go back and my appetite for him increased, I wanted more. One afternoon while he was holding me in warm afterglow I just asked him,

“Tell me more about yourself.”

“Okay. That’s random and general. What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know like, what do you do for work? Do you have a girlfriend? What do you like to eat? Something about you. I don’t even know what’s in your storage shed over there.”

“What the hell? Where is this coming from Jen? Some things, especially in affairs, are best left unspoken. I haven’t asked you to explain away that wedding set on your left hand.”

“You know I would explain if that’s what you wanted but you already have a decent glimpse into my world. We ‘rendezvous’ in my storage unit. You’ve seen my stuff. You know I’m married. All I know about you is that you’re here every week that your name is Justin and we have mind-blowing sex. Why is it such a big deal? ‘I like you’ usually equals I want to know more about you. I never see your unit door open, I never see you in there. I don’t know who you really are and what this is really about.”

“Baby, relax. Showing you next door will tell you more about me than you probably wish to know.” He ran his fingers through my hair. “And I’m not sure you’ll like what you see.”

“Really? I’m not sure there’s anything you can do to keep me away from you.”

He sighed, “Next time we can light it up over there. Name the day and time. No more questions now.”

“Tomorrow evening? Eight-ish?”

“You’re not eager at all. Today wasn’t enough eh?” He teased as he traced the outline of my bare breasts. It was a clear indication that he was finished conversing.

***

In the beginning Bryant didn’t question my oddly quiet and introspective mood around the apartment. He was preoccupied with the new business and I played it off as an adjustment phase. He never really questioned why I constantly found reasons to go back to the storage unit as often as I did. I crammed our little apartment full of unnecessary and trivial items. He seemed slightly amused by it all and just reconciled it to adaptation, grieving perhaps and making the most of an uncomfortable season. But the night I was to meet Justin and see his unit Bryant seemed concerned. Suspicions were percolating. I don’t know if it was the time of day I picked or the way I had been behaving over the last month. But he had finally had enough.

“Bry I’m just going to the gym for a quick workout and then over to the storage unit to pick up some books I’ve been missing.”

“When will it be enough? You’ve got to stop unpacking our storage unit. You’re out of control. Have you looked at how overcrowded this place is?”

And for the first time I did. Our house was a disorganized disaster, a mess that a month or more ago would have sent me into a cleaning frenzy.

“I guess I hadn’t noticed.”

“Haven’t noticed?” he was incredulous. “Well notice this. You’re not yourself anymore. I don’t know if it’s the stress or the newness of all this but I feel like you’re checked out.”

The blow of reality stung. I’d been living in a fantasy induced dream world for over a month. I didn’t even recognize myself. Looking at him I could easily read the love and frustration on his face. What would happen to me, to us if he ever found out about Justin? Not only was my apartment a disaster but my heart was too.

“Honey…? What?” he was loosing his poise.

“I need some space. Can we talk about this later?”

He shrugged as if trying to roll the frustration off, “Yeah, when should I expect you home?”

“I don’t know.”

“I figured.” He hugged me, “Be safe and let me know when you know.”

I grabbed my purse and keys and headed for the door. I arrived at the storage facility early. I sat there in the pale moonlight trying to figure out what I was going to say to Justin and if I should even stay. The pull of need locked me in place, one more time, just one last experience to remember him by. I wanted to at least say good bye. His silhouette emerged from the shadows, cigarette in hand.

“Hi beautiful.”

“Hi.”

“What’s wrong baby?”

“No more questions right?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be so,” he paused, his piercing eyes locking into mine “defensive.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t mean to push you. I just, I really care about you and wanted to know more. But you’re right. I’m married. I –.”

“Are we breaking up?”

“Not yet, at least not before I get to see your unit.”

Our laughter melted the tension.

“I’m afraid of the emotions I’m starting to feel for you. I thought I could handle just sex but maybe…” He cut me off before I could finish.

“It’s mutual.”

He stooped down and started to unlock his storage unit. Lifting the door I could see boxes and just beyond that the legs of several tables. As the door came up it revealed tables fully loaded with discarded soda bottles attached to tubes, jars, beakers, and chemicals. A pair of rubber gloves lay to the side of one table. There were propane tanks and things I couldn’t even describe. The fumes stung my nostrils.

“What is all of this?”

“It’s my need. I’m a scientist of sorts.”

“Why do you need a storage unit to practice science?”

“My labs aren’t the legal variety Jen.”

And it didn’t take me but a second after that to put the pieces together.

“Meth?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like a meth user. I mean...”

“I don’t use it anymore. I just sell it. I’m addicted to the rush of danger and adrenaline when a deal goes well and the cash. It’s more than enough to support me. That’s what I do for work. This is it Jen. Didn’t I tell you I don’t play games?”

“I can’t, I don’t want to be involved.”

“You asked girl. And it’s too late, you are involved now. I’m showing you because of your curiosity. In a sense we’re even. I’m just a substance like Meth that you’re using. Am I wrong? You’re not planning to leave your marriage for me. You’re here for the rush, the adrenaline, the arousal.”

I was speechless. This was so much more than I was equipped to digest and handle at the pace it was coming. Headlights flashed outside the storage unit. Another small car pulled around the corner. Justin panicked.

“Shit!” he grabbed my arm and yanked me forward. I could see that the headlights of the car belonged to Bryant and my heart began beating in my ears.

“Shit,” I whispered. “That’s Bryant.”

Just as we knew how to read each other intimately we knew how to read the implications of the situation in hundredths of a second. He let go of my arm. Our eyes met for the last time and he whispered,

“I believe I have now fulfilled all my gentlemanly obligations to you. I’ll miss this.” He flicked his still burning cigarette into the shed and slammed the door closed.

Before I could respond Bryant was speaking. I couldn’t comprehend the sound. I don’t know if it was the smoke or the tears it all happened so fast. I turned my head but couldn’t focus. I turned back and Justin was slipping into the shadows. And then there was a pop, an explosion. Bryant pulling me to safety. Another explosion. The stench and the flames.

In a matter of minutes emergency vehicles arrived. The fire crew pushed us back behind the perimeter they were quickly establishing with yellow tape. I watched the inferno rise to lick the night and the darkness taking with it my memories and belongings. The flames reached the darkest corners of my soul. The questions that followed: the Authorities’ questions, Bryant’s questions, my own. I wouldn’t, couldn’t respond to any, save one.

“His name?”

“Just–…Neighbor.” I wanted to buy him time because I was involved.