Deliberate introduction of the unexpected, or, more simply put, winning a war using the element of surprise.

Late gazes, window panes
And in the end they're not looking
No one gets to the wasted of mind
So insufficient this time

I don't think I noticed the cold or the rain until he put his arm around my shoulders and pointed out I was soaked to the skin and shivering.

I don't think I care, exactly and I came down here not to fight it out with words but to think it through inside my head. One minute I grasp a corner of bravery and a little excitement rolls over it, dripping off the edge and in the next moment despair tears it off in a jagged line, confusion soaking in and fear curling the edges like flames from fuel poured on dry paper.

Every time I jump someone gets hurt, I may as well just leave my feet on the ground, bound to the earth like tree roots on a cliff eroding into the sea. But in doing that I guess I made myself an easy mark.

I've picked off all my nail polish and bitten the quicks. I've punched holes in my lower lip for how tightly I'm clenching my teeth and I will never feel warm again if I stand here any longer. I can't feel my knees or my heart or my brain. It was probably never there to begin with. What's my name? Wait, don't tell me, I've heard it before. Bridget. Rhymes with fidget, rhymes with difficult.

Deep breaths don't work. The vodka didn't work. The sea isn't working. Nothing's working and yet the longer I remain here the easier it is to see that everything works just fine and it's me pushed all out of whack, bent out of shape, afraid of days that end in y and weather that features clouds, the letter J and running out of hugs.

Maybe none of it's scary in real life. Maybe it's just life and nobody cares the way I do. No one feels the way I do. No one understands who I am anymore.

I took the deal. I took it all. It wasn't even remotely what I was expecting and maybe that's how he'll win, in the end.

This is not my life.

A man who views the world the same at fifty as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.
                     ~Muhammad Ali

That would be the most fitting quote for Caleb, who turns fifty today and has not wasted a moment of his life, save for the ones he spends thinking about what could have been but never would have been, since my life was as well-planned out as his, once upon a time.

Then he painted over my big picture, not with shades of grey, but with solid black. Taking the hopes of a small girl and poking holes in them until all the air ran out and they fell back to earth with significant thuds.

I still hear the echo when I close my eyes, and he is still trying to make it up to me, but in a fucked up, twisted, demonic way because he doesn't know any better. He's not a Good Human and I am not a small girl anymore with my balloon dreams lifting my toes off the ground. Nope, I've been shot down, torn up, cast aside and broken so many times since then his evil barely registers anymore, and I will hush Lochlan's dire warnings with glassed-over, unfocused eyes and a will toward self-destruction because then I can still feel something, anything, that isn't desperate love or frightening abandonment.

But don't ask me to name this feeling, because I don't know what it is.

The proposal was not in the stack of envelopes with my Record of Employment, my final paycheque and my severance pay (of which I did not earn and will return to his account). It wasn't in the pewter envelope, which listed a day, a time and a dress, and the initials of those he would permit to accompany me to see him.

And so I am home from our big dinner out and taking a moment to change into the dress listed, which I had to call and ask about, not recognizing the description. The doorbell rang and the dress was then delivered. A new Valentino, the first in a decade, made by hand to the measurements of the green Valentino dress he sent back to them to mimic fit.

The other dress was returned to me as well. It pales in comparison.  This one is breathtaking and ridiculously overpowered for me and red, ironically. It's like taking a Ferrari down the street when a bicycle would suffice.

I'm nervous. Did you notice when I'm throwing out all sorts of allegories I'm nervous?

Ben's initials were not on the card.

Loch's were.

This feels more like a Mexican standoff than an afterparty but I gotta go. Or rather, I have to talk Lochlan into going, if he can talk at all when he sees me in this dress.

It stands for Xander and he hates it.

Fly me up on a silver wing
Past the black where the sirens sing
Warm me up in a nova's glow
And drop me down to the dream below

Before you come in, you have to pass my test, Caleb tells me with great amusement. I roll my eyes. So tired I feel like I've been drugged, and I'm not in the mood for whatever he's up to. Name the composer.

I listen intently. Shostakovich.

Bravo, Princess. Some days you make me so proud.

Few are as morose as he was.

Name another melancholy one.

Tchaikovsky.

Another?

Chopin! Jesus. Are we done?

No, Bridget. Jesus was not a composer, he was a prophet.

And a king. Don't think he didn't compose. Everyone with an overflowing head composes music to keep the voices drowned out.

Do you?

Of course. But my compositions are not set to music.

I'm aware. I suppose you would like your paperwork so you can go ahead with your grand plans to be steerage. Sorry for the delay. I was busy.

Steerage? Give it a rest. And yes, you're late with it.

On the desk. He turns up the music. The conversation is over. 

When I go to the desk, there is a stack of four envelopes tied with a grey satin ribbon monogrammed with his initials. CXC. Three envelopes are white, one is dark grey. My heart begins to make the long slow climb toward my throat but I fix my neutral smile, pick up the stack and turn back around.

He switches to Grieg (not morose) and returns my smile with a mischievous one of his own.

The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, 2013 edition.

Bear sightings #1 and #2 late last night, as two of the cubs born last spring (now a good 350 pounds each) broke down part of the side fence last night and made it all the way to the back door to investigate the recycling bins I keep outside by the step. Then they made their way to the garbage cans where they made a huge mess before Ben went out and scared them off with some growls of his own. We went out in the pouring rain and cleaned up the mess together, me casting a wary eye at the new hole in the fence every fifteen seconds or so.

Never a dull moment.

Update, because I know you've been checking back regularly.

PJ doesn't fit in the dryer.

Of course, I do.

Pineapple Express (five by five).

Maybe it's the neverending rain but everyone in the house seems to have become a little bit shack-wacky. I might be the worst.

This morning I pulled on my favorite old jeans. Then I checked the mirror and wtf. The jeans are too short. Maybe they're not the right ones so I ripped them off and tried a second pair. Same thing.

Oh my God. Could it be?

I push Ben out of the way and run past him down the hall and yell for him to hurry up. I stand very straight with my back to the wall, where the children's growth chart hangs.

So? So? I start jumping up and down.

Ben bursts out laughing. No, Bridget. Your head still stops at the 5-foot mark.

GODDAMMIT. 

He's still laughing.

I'm never letting PJ touch my clothes ever again. Doesn't he know you can't put cotton in the dryer by now? 

I think maybe he did it on purpose just for that one shining moment. 

Fuck PJ and his fucking shining moments. 

I heard that! PJ yells from downstairs.

GOOD! YOU'VE CRUSHED MY DREAMS, YOU FUCKING PRICK!

The whole entire house laughed at that. God, we're something. I hope the rain stops soon or I might put PJ in the dryer to see what happens. I'll keep you posted.

Stop, Drop and Roll: Fire safety techniques for children.

Don't say I'm better off dead,
Because heaven's full and hell won't have me.
Won't you make some room in your bed?
Well you could lock me up in your heart,
And throw away the key.
Won't you take me out of my head?

He dozed hard. Head thrown back, turned to his right side, face expressionless save for the slight creasing between his eyebrows. Focusing on napping while the house is quiet. I stare up at him. My instructions were not to leave the space I'm in, wrapped up in his right arm while his left dangles over the arm of the couch. He stirs briefly when I reach up and try to flatten the curls on the side of his head. He lifts both arms and settles back to sleep without opening his eyes.

Just a little break, Peanut. Setup's before dinner. Close your eyes, he orders and I ignore that. He always told me I have ants in my pants. I can't sleep during daylight hours. I'm a reverse-vampire. I'm a wingnut. I'm his, he tells me when I can't sleep. Give in to my naps, he cries, laughing. Please God, check out of the afternoon just for a little while, Blondie, so we have enough energy to stay up for the fireworks for once. 

(Those were at midnight. They're highly illegal and set off at the opposite end of the parking lot from where the trailers were, no matter what county we were in. If it's your birthday they would come to you a week ahead and ask your favorite color and that would be the only color set off on your special night. Since I'm a spring baby I got to pick first. I asked for pink, naturally. Lochlan went last because his birthday falls after school starts again. He also chose pink, just for me.)

I reach up again and wrap the errant curl around my finger. His hand comes up around my chin and he pulls my face in to his. Again without opening his eyes. Stop it, Bridgie. Sleep.

But I can't. It's two-thirty in the afternoon and there could be things to do but we're not doing them. We're here on the couch. One of us is chasing sheep and the other is chasing raindrops with her eyes as they roll down the windowpanes in endless patterns. Because it's endless rain.

I'm waiting for the bribe. I can count down to it.

Just let me have fifteen more minutes and I'll draw with you. 

There it is. Things to look forward to. I like those. We sit up at the island with all the lights blazing and draw caricatures of everyone we've ever met. Then he burns the pages, because some of the drawings are, as we say on the circuit, not nice.

It's like midway voodoo, something you don't ever mess with.

Similar to Lochlan's naps, I guess.

Tell me how it ends.

Ben was slightly more receptive today.

He offered up the whole afternoon, my Maple Leafs plush blanket and the theatre door locked until dinner. I could pick the movie. We would snuggle and eat popcorn and drink ginger ale and burp really loudly without saying Excuse me. Nude.

So I picked Magic Mike.

I'm surprised he hasn't gone back to his vow of silence.

And I missed half the movie because of being naked and being near Ben and...oh darn.

Yup. Fucking magical alright.

You said you envy me? Why, exactly?

I get nervous, perverse, when I see her it's worse
But the stress is astounding
It's now or never she's coming home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

Hard to say what caught my attention
Fixed and crazy, Aphid attraction
Carve my name in my face, to recognize
Such a pheromone cult to terrorize

When I came downstairs this morning, Lochlan paused midway through drinking a glass of orange juice. He then proceeded to stare at me as he finished the rest.

Then he came over and put his hand on my shoulder, digging his thumb in right where the tender spot is (it hurts) at the base of my neck, in case I'm distracted (I'm not) and then he bends his head down until our eyes meet.

You're not making this a fair fight, Peanut. Why don't you spill some of their secrets and make it even, at least. He's all accent and earnestness this morning and it's hard to be cold. I close my eyes.

Because he would take you down with him. 

I'm not the bad guy. You make me seem like the bad guy. 

What? When did I ever say you were bad?

This. This stuff. When I open my eyes he's waving his phone at me. There's yesterday's journal entry on the screen. I close my eyes again.

That doesn't say you're bad. It said I was an adult and that I can make my own choices and that when I had enough I came home. 

Also my fault. 

I don't like it when you're-

Like the rest of them?

Yes. Exactly. Like the rest of them. 

You know, Peanut, you can close your eyes and wish really really hard for the early days on the fair circuit when everything was fucking magical but that was the first thing to disappear out of your life and try as hard as I have, I can't bring it back for you. I would love to, I swear on my heart I would do it if I could but you won't let me. I don't think it's ever going to be there again. 

His eyes are glassy when I open mine. I yell in his face. Don't say that! 

Oh, Jesus Christ. It is my fault. All of it. He let go and backed away and then turned and left.

Lochlan, come back! My plea was met with silence. Absence. Resignation.

 ***

I don't chase Lochlan, instead I eat breakfast and text with Caleb, who is asking a thousand questions a minute. He has to have my record of employment and final cheque ready for noon. That's when I'll come get them. I quit. He's going to use a temp agency until I come back or he actually retires. Both answers are never so he'll be temping it for a while. I hope he has insurance, most places don't enjoy sexual harassment the way I do.

He doesn't even know where I keep his cheques currently. This is going well.

I thought you had a handle on life. 

So did I, Bridget. But please know that at all times I had your best interests at heart. I didn't want you to wind up penniless and hungry and cold. That's what life with Lochlan would have been like. 

I hate you.

I put the phone facedown on the counter and leave it there. He changes his stories to suit the colors of the day like my mood ring. It's turning black faster than I can warm it to blue today.

***

I go downstairs to see what Ben is doing. He's barely unpacked his guitars. He bought new cables and didn't bother unboxing the old ones. His studio is a godawful mess, worse than ever and he seems happy as a clam to sit on the floor (stool still packed) and strum away. The outlet is behind a wall of boxes. He's unplugged until he decides to get busy.

I ask him if he wants me to collect some boys and help him resettle the room. He is noncommittal.

I ask him if he wants some breakfast. He doesn't know.

I ask him if he knows that everything in my life was supposed to be fucking magical.  He doesn't answer. I slam the door but stay standing in one place, pretending I have left to see what he does.

He keeps on playing.

Hostile witnessed.

Maybe you should let sleeping freaks lie, Princess. 

You mean you should. 

He was the circus freak. What does this have to do with me?

I was in the show, Jake. 

When?

With him. Just...oh...a few years ago. The whole time he was there, give or take a week. I came back early but he followed.

 The freakshow. The fucking circus sideshow, love?

Yes. 

What did you..do? In the show? 

I walked the wire while he threw flaming hoops around me, I lay on a bed of nails and he would eat fire and then kiss me and I'd light candles with my breath afterward. Um......he did slow burns on me.  I also filled in for burlesque nights sometimes and we did private gigs. I got to lecture a few times too, even

Jacob sits down heavily on a chair that's already stacked with books. They slide off the chair and onto the floor but he doesn't notice. He pushes his glasses up his nose and tries to wrap his brain around my words to insulate them from all things good and clean.

Private gigs? What are those?

Uh..private shows. Mostly we did his act at private parties.

The fire routines?

Mostly.

Jesus, Bridget. What else? 

We put on a show. Okay? If people paid enough we would do all sorts of things. 

With the customers? 

No! Jesus. Never.

I don't fucking believe this. 

It was a lifetime ago. 

Apparently not. You said it yourself! Just a few years ago! Like yesterday, I bet. 

I didn't know you. You can't be mad at me for this. 

I can be mad at him. 

He was trying to make as much money for us as possible. 

By whoring you out.

By keeping us in demand. I was never out of his sight.

What made you stop doing it?

He changed. He couldn't cope. He got very dark. He's not like that and it really freaked me out. 

And when you came back did he return to his usual self?

Yes. 

Did he ever ask you to go again? 

Yes. But he said things would be different, that he wouldn't exploit our relationship for money ever again. I didn't go again though.

Jesus fucking Christ. I feel like I'm looking at a little stranger in front of me. 

I'm not. 

The hell you aren't. 

Would you have felt differently if you knew this about me first? 

Hell, no. 

Then don't act so outraged. We did what we had to do. We made a lot of money and we learned alot about ourselves in the process, about people in general. 

I bet. 

Shut up, Jacob. 

You first, Piglet. And next time I ask you something very serious please lie through your teeth to me, okay?

I can do that, but I don't think you'd like it any better.