Questioning

I am in love with Marcus Dominguez.

He has no idea.

I mean, to be totally fair, he definitely has no reason to know that I love him.

After all, we only see each other three times a week, at work.

Having opposite schedules sucks, by the way.

I have set out to make the most of what little time we have, however.

Every time we work together, practically, I ask him something.

About Him.

About his family.

About me.

About work.

About a co-worker we both hate.

It is fun, but usually not as rewarding as I anticipate.

One of these days it will hit him.

(Or I will.)

And he will see that the accumulated questions and answers are the equivalent of a date.

And that we know each other quite well.

And should really just start dating all the time.

Or at least, that would be true.

If he would just man up and ask a question back.

Already.

For goodness sake.

Silence

Joanna smiled as she closed the door to Ada's room. Ada had been crying for hours it seemed, and just now had fallen asleep. Joanna began to run through all the other tasks in her head that she had yet to finish that day, and was discouraged to discover that it was already five o'clock.

"What can you get done with only, " She counted in her head with the use of some fingers, "four hours until bedtime?" She thought hopelessly. At the prospect of bedtime she began to smile, remembering the new pajamas she had bought that were pink and white flannel.

She began to fantasize about that delicious moment when she could turn on the radio, crawl into bed, pull the sheets over her head, and not have to get up when Ada started to cry. Her husband could and would take care of that tonight.

At the thought of Steve, Joanna remembered that she needed to defrost the Macaroni and Cheese she had made last week. That would be the first thing to tackle on the to-do list.

After throwing that in the oven Joanna watered the Christmas tree and began to edit the week's editorial that was due Friday for work.

She kept her ears alert for any sound from Ada as she worked, but they were met only with a peaceful silence. Finally.

Smile

"Smile though your heart is aching,

Smile even though it breaking.

Though there are clouds in the sky,

You'll get by.

If you'll smile through your pain and sorrow,

Smile and maybe tomorrow,

You'll see the sun come shining through,

Just for you."

"That song always makes me cry." Charlie said as she made the last turn into our driveway. She was, in fact, crying a little.
I noticed this as I discreetly glanced at her through the barely reflective glass. We had gotten into rather nasty fight earlier, and we were not necessarily "speaking". The car ride thus far had been silent other than the radio.We had agreed upon an oldies station before the fight, and were both now enjoying it even after the fight."That's a good song, you're right. Didn't Charlie Chaplain write it?" I ventured."It's not good- It's great. And ya. He did." She answered.

Misfortune

The old woman dragged her rucksack behind her. With each step, she released a soft groan, the kind that is unassuming and courteous. As she shuffled along you could see her soft, grey hair slowing falling from the bun she had so meticulously constructed. She was hard to spot, being only one of many, but still, it was her I watched as the mass of people staggered along. A young man unintentionally bumped her as he tried to locate his family, and did not notice that he was what finally uncreated her delicate bun of hair. As the soft strands fell about her face, she seemed to slow slightly. Almost as if she was considering a stop, so that she might refashion her hair.

Insanity

She entered her room. Silently.

She sat there. Silently.

She rocked back and forth. Silently.

She stared. Silently.

She swallowed her pills. Silently.

She spit out her pills. Silently.

She pulled at her hair. Silently.

She walked down the hall. Silently.

She sat in the chair. Silently.

Then all was silent.

Memory

I can remember a time when I was excited to learn, to study. It wasn't "fun", necessarily, but I derived joy from it. I would memorize, summarize, itinerize- make fun what was necessary.

Now, though, all I want to do is lay about, sleep, read, draw. I feel no incentive to study. I feel no joy after completing homework. At least, not that kind of joy. The joy I remember.

Is this what it is to grow up? If so, I want no part of it.

Breathe Again

Cool.

Bubbles.

Shadow.

BIG faces!

Fingers tap on glass.

LOUD!

Food flakes.

Yum!

Circle circle.

Wiggle swim wiggle.

Happy.