Bedtime: 11.29.2013

“Amanda.” She said. “You may call me Amanda. It’s my real name”

I pretend I care. She thinks adding a deeper level of intimacy will make me get of harder. It won’t.

I lower my chin below her hairline and as my lips graze her skin “.....Amanda…”. Mostly I’m just saying it out loud as to commit it to memory.

Placing her gently on the bed I crawl over her and tug on the pull string of the bedside table lamp. The room goes black.

And like the switch that was turned off my mind turns on to Rachel. In my mind I’m with Rachel. This woman, ‘Amanda’, has the same slender legs as Rachel. She has the same flat backside as Rachel. I can tell this prostitute is self conscious of her flat butt, just like Rachel.

She starts to talk to me and I tell her “Shhhh, quiet baby.” I don’t want her to dilute the barely nearness I’m getting to Rachel. Rachel wouldn’t talk. She would just experience it.

Amanda quiets and lays back. Her breasts fall to the sides of her chest and her stomach has a belt of stretch marks, each a telling of a child born. I ripple my fingers over them and let out a heavy, deep sigh. Just like Rachel.

I run my fingers up her trunk past the curve of the side of her breast and over her neck up the side of her face and into her loose curly hair. My mind flashes to the late of the summer days and I can just see Rachel on a walking trail up ahead of me. She turns around quickly and her curls...oh, her curls just make me ache.

I grip on to Amanda’s hair and pull her head back start to kiss her jawline. My other hand searches down the other side of Amanda over her belly button, over her hair, in between her legs, down the inside of her thigh. Then its over. I lose it. I go flaccid and pretend play time is over. It didn’t work, again.

I give Amanda money for her time and walk this poor confused woman out the door after much insisting that she didn’t do anything wrong.

I head back to my bed and crash onto my pillow which quickly becomes saturated with the ocean of salty tears that are now pouring out of my eyes. Rachel is gone. She is dead. My wife is dead and I just can not move on. No matter how many prostitutes might look similar to her, none of them have that unforgettable quirky mole on the inside of their thigh. Rachel is dead and she’s never coming back.

I roll over, I set my alarm clock, I go to bed. Rachel is dead.

Bedtime 11.28.2013

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This is one chapter of a novel I'm writing, in its first-draft form. Enjoy!

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Ted slid a crisp twenty across the counter of the bodega and took a swig of stale, burnt coffee from a styrofoam cup. As the clerk pulled change from the register, his eyes drifted behind her, to a wall of cigarettes and batteries, falling longingly on a pack of Lucky Strikes. “Actually,” he said, “add a pack of those.”

As he stepped back onto the street and made his way towards Times Square, he balanced the coffee atop a newspaper kiosk and tapped the pack into his left hand. He had a cigarette in his mouth, hanging loosely from his lips, and was patting down his pockets in search of a lighter before he remembered he wasn't a smoker. Feeling confused and embarrassed, he pulled the stick from his mouth and carefully slid it back into the pack, then tucked the box into the pocket of his slacks.

Ted kept his hand on the box in his pocket as he walked, pondering what had just happened. Then, tossing his drained cup on top of an overflowing trash bin, he descended the stairs into the cold, damp subway.

After an exceptionally drab meeting, Ted crossed the street to Dot's Diner and slid into a booth across from Peter, a childhood best friend who shared the same love for Dot's cherry pie. Peter watched as Ted dragged a spoon through his black coffee, obviously distracted.

“Is something wrong?”, he finally asked.

“Huh?”, Ted asked, snapping back into reality. “Oh. I was just thinking about something strange that happened to me this morning.”

The waitress interrupted, setting their sandwiches in front of them. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Looks great. We're all set,” Peter said. As the waitress moved on to the next table, Peter turned his attention back to Ted. “So, what happened this morning?”

“It's silly.” Ted paused, staring out the window and squinting from the glare. “I've been having these dreams. Pretty much every night for a couple weeks now.”

“Nightmares?”

“No. They aren't nightmares. They're just weird. In my dreams, I'm smoking.”

Peter laughed, nearly choking on a potato chip. “I thought you were going to tell me something weird. You look so serious! So you're smoking in your dreams, so what?”

“The thing is, I've never smoked a day in my life. But in my dreams it feels so real.”

A strong breeze blew outside, shaking the window and sending a man's hat twirling through the wind, landing lightly on the sidewalk outside. “That's not the weirdest part,” Ted finally confessed. He reached into his pocket, fishing out the box, and sliding it across the table. “I bought these this morning.”

Peter flashed Ted a look of confusion. “But you don't smoke.”

“I know. But I'm telling you... these dreams are so real. This morning I forgot that they're just dreams. I bought them without even thinking.”

“Why are they open?”

Ted fidgeted in his seat and picked at his sandwich. “I had one in my mouth before I remembered.”

Peter laughed again. “What? You're shitting me.”

Ted lowered his head into his hands and let out a moan. “Work must be getting to me. They're just typical stress dreams, right? Maybe I just need a vacation.”

“Typical. Right.” Peter reluctantly agreed.

Bedtime: 11.27.2013

Autumn (continued)

10.

The moon rises up into the branches
hanging like an ornament
just for a while

and I know I should
put out the lights
breathe in
breathe out
burrow down under warm blankets

but I don't

because it's quiet now
and the time is mine
if only for the space to let my brain run free
without distraction

but it only takes minutes
for the electric hum of refrigeration
for a dripping faucet
for purring cats
to win

and so I seek solace under the moonglow

narcotic
lulling
hushed

and I stay until the cold begins to bite
I stay until the words come
I stay until there is enough stillness in my mind

to steel myself from the intoxicant night-serenity
and burrow down
finally
under warm blankets
breathing in
breathing out

Bedtime: 11.26.2013

Ah, bedtime. The first word that comes to mind is: No.

No sleeping.
No talking.
No tossing and turning.
No alone time.
No. No. No.

I have been so focused on changing my way of thinking. Changing how I approach life and being a little easier on myself and my loved ones.

Then, bedtime happens.

Most nights it is a shit show of tears and fights and stories and bribes. It nearly always ends with both my husband and I exhausted and thinking that there has to be a better way. We have tried just about everything we are comfortable with and yet still, the battle of the bedtime rages on.

By the time little eyes start to droop my patience has been worn thin. The tires on my parenting vessel are tread-less, I can't stop my emotions from slamming into my daughter's. The clash is epic and no one wins. By the time she settles down, I have gone from a content, happy mom, to an angry, frustrated mom. She eventually drifts off and I feel awful. What is it about bedtime that brings out the angry green guy who lives deep inside?

This will be my next self-improvement project. I can feel a shift happening in more recent weeks. The nights that end peacefully are starting to outweigh the horrendous ones. My anxiety at 7:30 is considerably less than it was two months ago. I have to hold onto the faith that this too shall pass.

Before I gave birth to my daughter I had visions of nighttime bliss. Stories followed by sweet snuggles as she would drift off to sleep. Evenings spent recapping my day with my husband while the kiddo would sleep soundly in her bed.

Flash forward to over three years later. She is passed out in our bed, taking up more space with her 30 pound body than my husband and I combined. This slumber is only after the aforementioned struggle. Sure, books and snuggles are part of the routine but so are arguments and lost tempers, guilt and an undeniable feeling of failure.

It is the latter that I struggle with the most. I have to let go of the unrealistic fantasy and ease off the pressure I put on myself and my child. Nothing in parenting is as you planned but that doesn't make it any less perfect. Tonight, during the bedtime boycott, I will try to focus on the good. I will ease up on the ideals and in turn, ease up on myself.