He was sitting at the island this morning, eyes boring into a cup of black coffee. Not drinking, just staring. Didn't even look up when I walked in, didn't say good morning. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot and when I turned around he said,

I think you mixed up Ben and I in your post yesterday.

Then he stood up and walked out of the room.

Barometers and outros (complete with ocean view).

Early morning
The city breaks
I've been calling
For years and years and years and years
And you never left me no messages
Ya never send me no letters
You got some kind of nerve
Taking all I want

Lost and insecure
You found me, you found me
Lying on the floor
Where were you? Where were you?
Lost and insecure
You found me, you found me
Lying on the floor
Surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait?
Where were you? Where were you?
Just a little late
You found me, you found me

You will know my grave when you find it, someday. There will be no name and no dates, only song lyrics printed in uneven Traveling Typewriter, set quite small, but maybe not. There will be no flowers, for flowers are wasted on the dead. Hopefully from where you stand you will have your back to the ocean, so that I can see the water even though I won't actually be there, no. Hopefully I'll be in the garage wrapped within black and white wings, hiding in plain view. Hopefully I won't mind. Hopefully it happens faster and less painfully than life does, this thing called death. But for the meantime, as far as I have seen, it doesn't.

I shouldn't hold my breath, should I? Prime real estate on the water doesn't lend itself to keeping souls, only creating them out of sand and seaweed, pressed tightly between the waves and the stones beneath until they resemble something that looks curiously like fossilized melancholy, or a little girl with an fistful of blue cotton candy and a broken heart. The sight of her will break yours. You just think you're tough.

Whatshisface has turned the corner. He has graduated to cast number two and seems to have his emotional footing back underneath him. Instead of seeing him perpetually sprawled on the floor from a decided lack of logic and balance he stands on the fringe again. He is the last person you would expect to be the first to take a risk, but there you have it. Maybe that's how he gets away with so much, that charm and easy quiet that fails to warn your intuition until it is so late it's pitch black and everyone has left. Hypnotism by fire. Don't say I didn't warn you, okay?

In any event, we are just happy he has stopped lashing out at everything and everyone. For the moment I will continue to evade his demands that I fill him in on the rest of my life because I'm busy doing other things, like drawing pictures, listening to music and trying to figure out what the rest of my life is supposed to be.

My current state is flawed, charred and twisted, dented, and rescued. I'm not sure if happiness is a ten-minute ice cream cone eaten in the park or a week without lifting a finger in Ibiza. I don't know if life is about a quick telephone call to someone I haven't talked to in a while or needing everything perfectly in place, clean, folded, pressed, organized and color-coded. Is that when it's finished? You're given your time card to punch out and ordered to choose between Quill and Commercial script?

I don't like those, they look like something you see in a trophy park and oh, that's right that's exactly what they are and How much for a custom font? and Oh, yes, I understand but you see, these deaths are different from every other one you have handled even though everyone must say that and no, I don't want them to look like those trophies because no one has any imagination or any creativity.

I understand the bronze will be tough and durable, but how black can they make it? Will that come off over time, a patina to blind people when the sun comes out?

Okay, good.

Because death blinds me, frankly.

(But what have you learned, Bridget?)

Oh. Do we need to do this today? I'll just rattle them off. Tomorrow they might be different.

Caleb taught me that fear can disguise itself as something else and that I seek it for kicks, sometimes.

Cole taught me that I am stronger than any (or is that every?) man I know.

Andrew taught me that sometimes a cookie is all you have in a relationship and that's okay too.

PJ taught me that a hug can fix absolutely anything, so many hugs can fix everything.

Dalton taught me that it's okay to hate green tea and lie about it for fifteen years running.

Duncan taught me that I love beat poetry and art but that I have no respect for affectations.

Christian taught me to edit. Edit, edit, edit and then edit again.

Joel taught me that even perfectly normal people make huge mistakes too.

August taught me that if it walks like a corpse and talks like a corpse and flips his hair like a corpse, it's probably the corpse's best friend and you should leave well enough alone.

Sam taught me that friends are here to help, no matter what they think.

Daniel taught me that not all men have to be bulletproof, impact-resistant or tough. Some can be so sweet and gentle it's criminal.

Lochlan taught me how to live, how to lie, steal, balance on a tightrope and how I can find comfort in my imagination when there isn't any comfort to be found in reality. He said Life is an adventure, and sometimes adventure isn't warm or safe or even happy but it's adventure, nonetheless. He is right. He's always right. When he isn't losing his mind, that is.

Jacob taught me how to die. (Fucking bastard, I already knew that one.)

Ben taught me how to love. Without rules or history or anything more than love for our own sakes. For that I will be forever grateful, for I would not have known it otherwise. He is still teaching, I am still learning. You won't get rid of us this easily.

I taught myself that what doesn't kill me just goes into the bitter stew and I eat it every day and grow stronger, healthier, even more jaded and completely cracked, too.

I need a blender so I can put it all together and have all the good parts mixed together from all of us and leave out all the bad things like mood swings, electric bills, broken boot laces and arguments. Maybe bad songs, missed goals, abandoned plans and burned toast can go in there too, and cover up the smashed watch that came back in a padded envelope because I asked for it and the blood pressure cuff that I took off an arm and put in the pocket of my sweater before the doctors ran in to save a life that had already been spent.

Maybe these mementos are the worst forms of remembering death instead of life. But maybe I needed their last-touched things because I have the first-touched things already. Maybe I'm not nearly as morbid or ghastly as I seem, maybe it's just that I wasn't ready. I'm ready with dumb things and plans that will never see fruition but blindsided by surprise, always.

Maybe my grave will have my name, simply carved in Times New Roman. Maybe there won't be a grave at all.

Maybe I'll live forever, a fitting sentence for someone who goes to the garage to play truant with the angels when the living are here, ready with their lessons, ready with their songs.

Order of importance (conversations at 8 and 13).

I wanna hear your voice call me, call out loud
When you talk to me I'll hear you out
I wanna space it out too close, move on out
It's all around for you to see, yeah, it's all I want to see
But there's such a lot of baggage

You got us into this so get us out of this
Get us out of this,
Get us out of this

Lochlan? Where are you from?

Why?

Certain words. You say them wrong.

Not wrong, just differently. It's my accent. I was born in Vancouver and then we moved to Edinburgh when I was a baby. Both my parents are from there.

Where is that?

Scotland.

Where is that?

The other side of the Atlantic, Bridget.

Did you use a boat?

Airplane.

Oh.

You have an accent too, you know. At least to me you do.

Mom says I talk like where I'm from. South Shore.

She's right. It's really New-Englandy.

Sorry.

Don't say sorry for something you can't help.

When did you move out here?

When I was eight.

Just like me.

Yes. Just like you.

I don't like moving.

No one does, Bridget. On the other hand, it makes you flexible and that's a good thing.

I'm double-jointed.

Not that kind of flexible.

Oh. Then what do you mean?

If you move alot it makes you less set in your ways. You make changes easier. Adventure is normal instead of out of the ordinary. You see things you might not see if you were always in the same place, doing the same things, going down the same road.

Are you moving again soon?

No? I'm just pointing out examples of how you are flexible now. And that will help you when you grow up.

I'm never growing up. It looks stupid.

Yeah. It does, doesn't it?

So...will you still have the accent when you're grown up?

I don't know. Maybe. A little at least. My parents still do so I might.

I like it.

You do, do you?

Yes. It's umm...erotic.

You mean exotic?

Yes! Exotic means exciting and from far away, right? What does erotic mean?

I thought you were the word girl.

I am.

Not so much, actually.

So what does erotic mean then?

Grow up first and then I'll tell you.

Resolute dawn.

Oh, did you ever believe that I could leave you,
Standing out in the cold
I know how it feels 'cause I have slipped through
To the very depths of my soul.
Baby, I just want to show you what a clear view it is
From every bend in the road.
Now listen to me
Oh, as I was and really would be for you, too, honey
As you would for me, I would share your load.
Let me share your load.

I woke up slowly this morning when Ben pushed my head down into the pillow. He presses his lips against my hair and then he lifts away and cold air rushes in against my back. He wrenches my knees apart and my wrists down and then he is close again and I am warm.

He threads his arm down around my shoulders, pulling me back up against him. His other hand come up under my jaw and he turns my head against his for a hard kiss. It's glorious.

Oh, I've got you now, he says. I try to nod but I can't move. I think I could wiggle my toes if I tried but then again maybe I can't.

He loosens his hold for a response and I nod and he kisses the top of my head again, his hand sliding over my mouth. Good girl, he whispers into my ear. Good girl, Bridget. Don't make a sound.

I am flattened facedown against the sheets again. I reach up and hold on tight to the pillows. If I'm going to get flung right out of heaven, it's not going to happen today.

New plan(et).

I need us undivided, I want this thing to stop
I've had the training to be overwhelmed but I'm not
Empty soul of hate but this isn't my war
Couldn't tell you how it started or where it is fought

It's nice to wake up and do some early reading and discover I qualify for my new dream job. You need a high school diploma, an ability to withstand isolation and reprovisioning only once a month, and mechanical/electrical repair skills. (No worries! I will just charm them and fake it and it'll all work out just fine.)

Lighthouse Keeper.

As long as I have whiskey and dry mittens I am in. And Ben. I can bring Ben, right? Well, I'm not going to leave him behind. Are you mad?

Magician.

It was already beginning to show curses from years ago
And the ocean is already parted
Will you take a walk
Walk with me now til we get to November?
Something I was never meant to find
An answer
An answer

At three I slipped out from under Ben's arm and struggled into my clothes in the dark. Outside down the path, dodging between stars and then in through the door I ran. I ran straight to the big wing chair that faces the sea. There are no lights on. I'm going to break my neck. I come around the side of the chair and he is waiting for me. Head down, cuffs shot. Thick suitcoat buttoned. Shirt pressed. Hair too long, tousled just perfectly enough to distract from a jaw so square it will cut you wide open if his words or his hands don't cut you first.

He doesn't move and I wait. I'm afraid.

The wind, Bridget.

I turn around and look at the water. Yes, what about it?

It's different tonight. He raises his head at last and his eyes are darker blue. I had every right to be frightened.

I nod. I can't look away now.

Come here. He says it softly.

I bite my lip to keep it from trembling and I step forward. He reaches up and pulls me down into his lap by the wrist. Every touch is a bruise from Cole, every word a caution. He wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my shoulder.

You smell so good.

It's not a compliment. It means he doesn't like my perfume.

He pulls me back harder against him and wraps his hand around my throat. Cold metal presses against my cheek as he presses my head back against his shoulder. I hear the click and my heart drops through the trapdoor on stage and into the basement of the theatre. The lights are hot. There's not a sound from the audience for everyone is holding their breath.

How many people are you going to forgive this week?

Just the one.

Why now, beautiful? Why start this again?

I want it to end. I try to sit up and he wrenches me back tighter into his arms, squeezing my neck so hard tears slide out of my eyes but I stop fighting. I listen.

It's too late to end it. It only ends when another one of us dies and you know it won't matter who does, either way every thing will only change again. He is getting louder, angrier, roaring into the top of my head. I begin to shake all over. He mistakes that for cold and forces me forward, holding me out with one hand while he unbuttons his suitcoat with the other. He pulls it out around me and then presses me back against him. There is no heartbeat to search for. This is colder still.

The gun slides down my cheek, under my chin, up around my ear, down my throat to my shoulder. He then traces it down my chest and points it at my heart. He twists it against my bones. Such a little miracle worker to be able to repair something that's been broken so many times.

It isn't fixed, I plead. He presses the gun into my skin and I cry out.

It's better than mine, isn't it?

I just stare at him. Just a dream. Hold your ground. Jacob's voice is in my head and I run across my pitch black mind and cling to it.

DON'T YOU TALK TO HIM. THIS IS MY TIME. Cole is up out of the chair now, clothes are hanging off him, he is gaunt and wasted and dead and so staggeringly handsome I wish he would just shoot me now so I didn't have to see him like this and then I could see him like he was.

Jacob remains silent. He wishes Cole would just go away and most of the time I try to keep him far far away from the others and sometimes I take pieces of him and throw him in their faces until they get a clue.

I focus so I can hear what Cole is saying.

Maybe you would be whole again if you would just let me tell them what really happened. We already have the villain and the hero, there's no need for any more roles to be cast. The supreme triple-cross, Bridget, and now you're going to go back to the one who orchestrated the whole thing? You truly are insane. It suits you. But God, you are still so fucking beautiful. His blue eyes have shifted to medium and I switch them back. His hair is darker and I frown. This isn't right. The gun is no longer cold and he is still growing, shooting up through the night until I am talking to the lapels on his coat instead of to his chin.

He bends down and kisses me and I scream and push Caleb away. In my ear Jacob whispers to run and so I listen to him too. Exit stage left. Right out of the theatre and into the dark alley beyond.

“Everything being a constant carnival, there is no carnival left.” ~Victor Hugo

I don't see the need for any routines
I'm all out of sync, I cover my cuts
And hope they are fixed before I get hurt again
And all this ground beneath my feet
Has decided not to crumble into the sea

When I stood still in the center of the dirt road I could see everything. It was pitch-dark outside, cloudy with no stars, still and quiet. Without the light of town it was almost daylight. In a few hours the frogs would give up their posts for crickets and sparrows. Barn swallows would gather, chickadees would sing and sparse farm traffic would throw up dust clouds, turning the dead grass browner than it already was. The heavy undercurrent of salt air from the ocean lifted the light overnight wind.

He repeated himself slowly, looking down at me. The rules. The cautions. The things he was not sure that I could handle. I squared my shoulders and nodded bravely at every point. I had no idea what half of them meant but if he could handle it then I would too.

He put his hand out into the space between us.

Do you want to come with me, or do you want to stay behind, Bridget?

I reached out and took the hand he offered. I'm coming with you, Lochlan.

He squeezed my hand so hard my tiny gold ring turned square and I looked up into his face for approval. His smile lit up the whole road.

Too little, too late (story of my life).

Disappear and dissolve
A weakening wall
Will one day fall
It's wise to sever our loss
I redefine pulse
Through your iris

Love's not all lost
But its raised to my cross
And crucified all that I've held on
To be awaiting
Anticipating a touch such as yours

False affection
A spawn of neglecting
A love, lust, hoax
Please understand me
That now where you're standing
Is closer then I'd hoped

Lochlan came back yesterday just as the sun was going down, a list of outrages that he numbered through, throwing them out into the air one after another, turning the sunset black for me. He started with the fact that his daughter still has Caleb's last name and ended with the fact that he's done everything I asked him to do, right down to sticking around and defying the very nature of his gypsy heart to just take off and come back many months later.

After every single litany I repeated the same three words and still he never listened and then I threatened to throw his own torches at him just to get him to pay attention. He laughed and told me to go run and get the torches and fetch a bottle of something and we could do it up right. Make a spectacle.

That's the way we do everything. With an audience.

The household had other plans, however and we were separated and banned from fire fights and alcohol and even simple conversation, because every conversation ends in an argument. Because time has changed both of us and ground the past into our backs with its heels and now we just try to keep the marks covered, free from prying eyes as we go about our days.

I just find it upsetting that some of the words he's wanted to hear so badly for so long evoke nothing more than rage now. I didn't expect that, but perhaps I should have. Some breaks can't be fixed and some wounds can't be healed with time.

Tell me about it.

On second thought, don't. Not today. My plate is full.

Freaky Friday (bonus post for the night owls).

Catch the wind, see us spin, sail away, leave the day, way up high in the sky.
But the wind won't blow, you really shouldn't go, it only goes to show
That you will be mine, by taking our time.

And if you say to me tomorrow
Oh what fun it all would be.
Then what's to stop us, pretty baby
but what is and what should never be.

Lochlan poked his head into the kitchen just as I was putting away the last of the dishes from dinner. Perfect timing. He had disappeared right after eating, telling me he had to run a few errands, heading out with the truck, newly driving again now that his arm is less sore. Finally, a little less restless now that he can get out and around.

Hey, Fidget?

Hmmm, Locket. I am ignoring him.

Bridget. Oh, there's his serious, logical voice. I turn around. He has a bouquet of roses. Real ones this time. And they're not on fire. Hey, we're making progress at least.

Truce? He smells dauntless and a little like shampoo.

Maybe.

Happy Valentine's Day, for real this time. He turned to leave again.

I forgive you. I said it quietly and he stopped and put one hand up on the door frame but then he kept going. He'll come back to this when he's ready. This is how we do things, he and I.

A quiet stream of unconsciousness.

I lasted through the three extra cups of coffee this morning and now that the caffeine has worn off the pain is back.

Ow, my head. This headache seems to show itself every third month and last for around five days. It's just lovely, thanks for asking. At least it's as predictable as the migraines used to be, maybe that's what it still is. I don't know. I've had bad headaches since I was a child, but they turned almost debilitating in university and Cole used to take me to the emergency room where they would shoot my hips full of Gravol and Toradol. One to ease the pain and the other to keep me from throwing up. It burned like hell.

The last time I went to the hospital for help I was pregnant with Ruth. After that I figured I was a mom now and moms have got to be some sort of invincible. Only I'm not invincible, and I don't know why I try to be. I just keep taking ibuprofen and drinking coffee and telling myself it's not so bad, when most people would be on the goddamned floor by now.

Others have told me it must not truly be migraines or I would be on the floor. Yes, I'm aware of that but like I said, the pain threshold, it's very high. So high I have broken bones and kept going, figuring they would heal. I had a caesarean without drugs once. I've been tested and I've seen specialists and I've withstood it, so don't tell me what it is and what I should do. I just never talk about it much anymore. Everyone's an expert on three things in life: babies, migraines and grief. This is why when you meet me I may not talk out loud. If you say the wrong thing you'll meet a stream of East coast Tourette's, for I have no patience for generalizations.

AKA Shut the fuck up, unless you fit in my shoes (see next paragraph) and have walked a mile in them. Easier said than done.

I'm actually pretty sure that this pain is a brain tumor and someday it's going to kill me midstep. Abruptly. Switched off, just like that. I hope I'm really old and holding onto something when it happens. That would be better than standing in the shop trying to decide between two pairs of Louboutins, now wouldn't it? Or perhaps just about to turn off the oven. I don't think that would be good either.

I like to keep things organized and not be a burden, you see.

So I'm just putting that here that I'm sure it's a tumor and oh yes I Googled the symptoms and one should never do that and instead I should just tell you that I did have breakfast with Sam and his...paramour? Friend? and it was really nice and he was funny and sweet and a little bit good-looking and I have invited them both here for dinner this weekend and hopefully by then I will feel better and in the meantime I will call Caleb and apologize for swearing at him and telling him to send the construction workers home because I couldn't stand the noise.

Wish me luck. Bring me aspirin. And my apologies for being a tiny little crab tonight.