She was tired of being a lady
As she sat prim and proper her eyes worked the room.
She was dying to live
To be kissed like she'd never even imagined
To be handled by a MAN
One who wasn't intimidated
A man with a fierce desire who would grab her and take what he wanted.
Instead they brought flowers and candy
And commented on her dresses
Oh, isn't she handsome?
Sometimes they would be brazen
And reach for her hand
But she was tired of being a lady and she needed a man.
The table was set
The linens pressed, flowers fresh,
And there he waited
In suit and tie
Sure it would be just a minute more.
The clock surely lies!
It couldn't be that late!
Yet there he sat, with an unkept date.
Alone so long
It seemed only right
He packed up his disappointment
And walked into the light.
There were no flowers tonight.
No standing ovation was given.
She did her best and gave them what they came to see.
But it wasn't the same.
She felt it as she bent to untie her slipper.
Something was ever so slightly off.
They could smell her weakness.
They could sniff out her fear.
She was slightly off balance.
Her dress was slightly torn.
Her skin a bit too full.
Yet, she did her best,
She gave them what they paid to see.
Even if there were no flowers
And she carved out a piece of her soul.
There it stood
Menacing and scary just as it had when she was a girl playing Ding, Dong, Ditch.
That was before.
That was before he came to the door and she lost her soul.
Now here it was again like a boogeyman in the night,
A nightmare upon awakening.
Except it was different after all these years.
The construction had no doubt withstood much. Both weather and turmoil.
And the majesty it once held now faded.
But there was something else.
Her arm reached out and at the end she saw a wrinkled hand, crepe paper skin marked with veins and brown spots. Arm covered in weathered lace.
And then she saw the wreath. Dead flowers and a worn bow. The decay was unmistakable.
She knew then for certain what she already knew in her heart.
No expectations, no regrets
Yet here I sit expecting some grand gesture.
But life is no John Hughes movie and I sure as hell ain't no Molly Ringwald.
Does anyone even get that reference anymore?
I'm straddling the line between 30 and 40
Sitting in the corner pouting like a little girl.
Not very becoming for a dame of my age
But youth is exiting my body like menses and I guess that will be gone soon too.
I should have done the manly thing and bought a Corvette and a blonde.
He loved Bukowski and Hemingway (though I had to disagree with the latter).
He loved camping and making things with his hands
His rugged, strong - yet tender - hands.
Yet, the smiles he gave me were made by heart. His heart so big and open...
But, I digress.
He could cook and write and make you feel like no one else mattered
When you were around.
I miss him. It's better where he is. He has infinite beauty and I shall never forget.
Where had the time gone?
She was once a vibrant, young woman. Wasn't she?
That's how she remembered it.
She had felt that way once. Or had she?
That was long ago in the life of another girl.
That girl was strong. That girl was fierce.
She didn't know this woman. This woman sat in the kitchen pitting cherries for a pie that she would never make.
This woman wore aprons and peeled potatoes.
That girl would be horrified. She ran down the street full speed in search of a dream.
Instead she slammed into him.
Now she sits
5 a.m. in the kitchen
Cows lowing in the barn.
I sit and stare at my coffee
As a fly lights on the edge.
A small diner in the desert.
I'm a long way from home.
I was at my most romantic with her;
A perfect gentleman
Bringing her roses on Tuesday while she shelved books in the 700s.
I gave her a black hat in the cemetery
As the snow collected in her hair.
She danced naked to Aretha Franklin
As my brown eyes watched hers, hazel.
We snuggled by the fire
Drinking Merlot and eating Brie,
Watching scary movies to have an excuse to cuddle in our arms.
We ran away to Florida in search of Dali.
She read Poe and Sexton as the road hypnotized me.
In my mind,
Her lips touched mine,
Then her memory fades.
She didn't recognize the woman looking back at her.
There was something familiar in the eyes.
They seemed cloudier, fuzzier than she remembered.
Time hadn't been friendly.
Love letters yellowed in her vanity drawer,
Sentiments from suitors long gone - yet somehow, she had never forgotten.
The taste of the one still lingered on her lips... His scent ghostly in the air.
Those days had faded with the glow of her skin leaving dimpled thighs and crow's feet.
Oh, but in her day! She was a force!
All black hair, red lips, and swagger.
Even with a few extra pounds, the gentlemen beat at her door.
But this woman...
She wore the same lipstick...
She had the same hair albeit a shade of silver blue.
But there was no one at the door.
The phone no longer rang
And everything around her seemed antique and frayed.
Audrie is a writer and editor living in Illinois. She is a fan of all things horror and pop culture.