There is a tall, kind man who takes me out to the seashore for brunch every Sunday. The ocean is white and frosty during the drive, and he holds my hand the whole time. Every week we pick a different little diner on the coast. He orders an “Irish Farmer’s Breakfast” and talks about the Patriots with the wait-staff, who he always knows, who have accents like his. He drinks two Bloody Marys and is twice my size. My tiny hand in his reminds me of Belle caressing the Beast’s paw. It occurs to me how very far from home I am.
He always offers me a bite of his omelet, which has ham in it, and if I were the strict and insufferable type of vegetarian this might bother me, but my very presence here - not to mention in his bed last night - is proof that tastes change. I’m fond of his twinkling blue eyes, his gentle, princely masculinity, the pride he takes in his work.
Alas, although I am miles from home, at the opposite corner of the continent looking out towards the Atlantic, I have not really traversed anything. Because every night I still dream about the woman who left me. A woman who was never especially nice or giving, who seems instead to have taken everything good away. In the most recent dream, she was singing and told me, “Now I’m taking music.” Somehow over the past four years, I granted her these sorceress powers over my entire life and my experience of the world.
Even the handsome woodsman, charging through the snow to save me, cannot break her spell.
-
angelaserratore liked this
-
atencio liked this
-
natashavc liked this
-
rrainking liked this
-
singoutlouise posted this
