Kissed Mason and threw an, “I love you,” over my shoulder as I charged down the steps. Picked up momentum as I headed across the street, back toward our apartment. Counted cracks in the sidewalk, steps. Watched my feet dodge in and out of my line of vision. Held my breath. Clamored through the front door, made it to the elevator, lost it.
An hour later he opened the door and found me still laying on the floor. Catatonic. Dropped his bag and draped himself over me. I immediately started sobbing again.
That’s the world we’ve been living in.
As a writer, I felt I should be able to find words for it. The hot anger, the senseless desperation, the hopelessness. The ever-resurfacing frustration with the person I seem to be. Instead, I looked across the bathroom floor at my wonderful husband, eyes big and mascara-stained. I said, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Each word crashed in the space between us and I collapsed on top of them. Curled into his chest, clawed for air, for stability. He tilted my head up toward his, eyebrows bearing down and voice tight around the edges, “You can. You’re okay. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
All folded in on myself and rendered immobile, I clung onto his t-shirt. Slowed my breathing.
I don’t know how to believe him.
But his arms pinned mine to my sides and he rocked me. And I knew he believed himself. And that’s enough for now.
Our office is silent and my laugh bounces off the corners of the ceiling.
“You like that?” His giggle joins mine as we nod our heads at each other. Placing a hand to the corner of his mouth, he leans toward me and whispers loud, “He’s shy.” He draws out the end of the word to insure his friend hears him.
The other man blushes and toes the ground, tilts his head down more, and hides his eyes behind the bill of his baseball cap. I wait until he looks up again, lock eyes, and smile.
Some people are just easy to be around.
During the great breakdown of November 2008 I stood on my parent’s back porch and smoked with my dad. He reached in his wallet—exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke and warm breath into the chilled air—and pulled out a credit card. He pressed it into the palm of my hand and I curled my fingers around it, tilting my head to one side and raising my eyebrows. “What’s this for?”
“Take your time, but get home safe. Always make sure you can get home.”
I pointed the hood of my Toyota Corolla down Interstate 5, headed south. This was back when I could do the drive from southwest Washington to Tucson, Arizona with only a quick nap around Sacramento. In less than twenty-four hours I’d crossed fifteen-hundred miles. I stood on a doorstep, everything I owned in a black duffle bag at my feet, and knocked.
Bryan opened the door and pulled me inside quick. “RUBY!” He held out his hand in a fist, palm down. I mirrored his gesture, extending mine open and palm up. Pills. He picked a bottle of André brut champagne up off the coffee table and handed it to me. After I’d taken the X and pounded enough of bubbly he gave me a hug.
Colton stayed seated, but gave me a toothy grin, eyes crinkling, and kicked his head back in greeting. “Good to see you, kiddo.”
They didn’t beg me to fill them in on what was going on. Didn’t hammer me with questions about the unfaithful boyfriend I’d left with a half-empty house and a broken lease. Didn’t ask me what I planned to do now that I’d dropped out of college for the second time. Didn’t demand I tell them about all these doctor appointments and consultations with surgeons.
Instead they asked if I would be moving in. Told me how they could rearrange the apartment to accommodate all three of us once I had decided.
Some people are just easy to be with.
My co-worker gives the two men a tour of our space and I stay seated at the front desk. The mid-February sunset streams in through the big open windows. I catch myself squinting in the once-again silent office. There is always somewhere safe, but you never know where it will be.
Walk the city for hours only to
collapse in a heap on
the rug where we wipe our feet
when we come home at night.
Leave on my shoes, coat, and backpack.
Stare straight ahead into the dark,
lying on my belly.
For hours I gasp for air.
My husband gets home and helps me into bed.
I sleep only partially and
wake up regularly to reach out into the night.
Press my palm against his shoulder and
my feet into the curve of the back of his knees.
Ruby Pipes 