I always wanted to be invisible after that first time it happened. I wanted to watch you, but I didn’t want you to see what I was up to.
I remember sitting in my parents’ living room, with my eyes shut down while my breathing became rather shallow. I didn’t want you to hear me either.
I was always in my Sunday best – patent leather shoes with shiny buckles, poppy necklaces and frilly silly girly dresses that were held up by skinny little legs that sprung to life at the drop of a Broadway tune coming from my father’s HiFi. But now I wanted to dissolve into one of those Tom Collins drinks that made their way around at my parents’ shindigs. In between all the merriment and my father’s wit that rivaled Oscar Wilde, there he was. Some one had let the devil incarnate in.
Everybody loved him. What was not to like? Read More→
name in her friends group that transported me back to when I was in my 20s and living in San Francisco. My boyfriend at the time had a brother who was married to that red-headed woman I will call Ms. X (a fake name to protect me). I looked at her picture and thought about the different journeys we went on after we both broke up with the brothers. We did live a few block from each other in Manhattan. But we rarely saw each other because I thought she was living the more glamorous life. And I was entering my sullen-poetess-and-stand-up-comic phase. And dating guys whose faces I could never pick out of a crowd. I think that had to do with dimly-lit bars and becoming dim-witted after a half dozen Southern Comforts. See, Laurie, I did embrace some southern things.
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