Folkwar.

We did go to dinner last night, either as a coup or a mutiny or maybe just a moment where Caleb remembered he isn't Mr. Nice Guy after all and told Lochlan to shove it up his rabbit in the hat, that we were going to dinner, that he was welcome to come with, that sometimes Bridget needs someone around who doesn't cut her meat for her (WAIT. Is that a...euphemism?) and we'd be back by eight.

We went for Monte Cristos. Because I love them. Cake has been replaced, I think. All I want for Christmas is a fried sandwich and a pickle on the side (Oh, that's DEFINITELY a euphemism).

In fact, I think I might be the patron saint of that sandwich. That or the urban legend equivalent. Look into the mirror and say Monte Cristo three times and a Bridget will appear, scare you shitless and steal your sandwich.

Am I marginalizing myself?

*Shrug*

Just to be a dick, Caleb had us back at eight-fifteen and Lochlan did his patented predictable behavior where he comes down the walk hollering things I can't understand even if I could hear him over the purr of the R8. Caleb raises his voice slightly in a plea for peace (for my sake), points out my relative intactness (HAR HAR) and Lochlan shuffles me inside where he'll grill me for ten minutes about the day before deciding if he's sure that I still love him and haven't left him for the devil.

I can't say I'd be any different but I reminded him he was INVITED.

I even stomped my foot for good measure. For emphasis. For euphemisms.

How the flinch stole Christmas.

Caleb invited me over for some Christmas cheer and asked if I could help with his gifts, in exchange for Christmas music, mulled wine and maybe some dinner out this evening if I could. I don't know about dinner but the rest is a go and I brought some olives and cheese with me so we can at least have something to snack on while we do his cards. 

I don't mind-I love doing wrapping and addressing-and he pays very well. Plus Lochlan didn't hesitate when I asked him if he minded. I didn't ask him if I could go, just if he minded and then I would make a determination from there but he was gruff and dismissive about it so I took that as a 'don't bother me, I'm busy' mindset and I packed up the snacks and headed across the driveway in the...the....

The SNOW! 

(Which lasted all of fifteen or twenty minutes before it began to melt as it hit brick and swiftly turned to straight rain again. I got lots of chilly vitamin D yesterday and things aren't so bad weather-wise right now, I can handle a little more rain and I promise I won't complain about it.)

When I went over he had Christmas music cued up and wine that he was pouring into mugs. He looked up as I opened the door and held up my picnic basket. 

Hey! Somehow I didn't think you'd be coming. 

And yet you're pouring two mugs. 

Yes, well, my second choice was John, if you couldn't come over. 

He'll be flattered, no doubt. 

He's not as pretty though, so it's a distant second choice at that. 

Anyone watching Westworld? (No spoilers)

Okay, honestly? Westworld has so much potential, they just haven't figured it out yet. The sets and clothing are gorgeous, the acting unparalleled. The only problem is the story, sadly. The show's creators were so busy trying to be clever and mysterious that they forgot to care if we were invested in the characters or not.

We weren't. Maybe next season will be better? I hope so. 

It was sunny when I woke up, and yet too cold to go outside and linger in my pajamas and so after letting the dog out we (the dog and I) went back upstairs and jumped back into bed with Ben and Lochlan. I fell back asleep for an hour dreaming about maybe going for a walk in the sun later and when I went back downstairs it was raining and everything looked dark, dim and dreary. Same as always, same as ever.

So we went out for lunch at a greasy little diner and went Christmas-light shopping and came home again to hang up the lights. 2 more strands for the tree and the rest strung from the ceiling all over the place. Which is PERFECT and looks busy and festive. We put them high enough so that Ben won't garrote himself but you can still see them. I love the way it looks. They won't be coming down after Christmas either, like the ones outside.

Because I always wanted to go back and live on the Midway and now I get the best part but also it's safe and warm and we don't have to pack up every eight days and go on to the next town.

Sixty days of rain (like 30 Days of Night but with only one monster).

I should write a book.

How not to keep your sanity when it's been drowned in a puddle. 

It'll be a bestseller and everyone will call me 'refreshing' and 'honest' for my insistence that it's okay to be a goddamned mess. Aren't we all at this point? I can pick mushrooms off my shoulders and eat them. My hair never dries. I can't stand the darkness anymore and I want to scream.

I used to say this about snow and endless winter, endless cold. Then I moved to the rainforest where it hardly gets cold enough for a jacket but it also never. 

stops. 

fucking.

raining. 

CHRIST.

August is shopping for a SAD light for me. I've only been asking for one for seven or ten years now. I want to sleep all the time and I can't seem to accomplish much and then I have a manic/panic flurry and catch up in the bright artificially-lit room, like a moth, sticking my face right up to lightbulbs and frowning madly at the dark.

Flap flap flap. 

(goes the giant blonde moth)

Where is the perfect place for me? It isn't endless winter, or endless rain, it's a little bit of everything, tempered by the beach, which doesn't care what weather we're having as long as I'm there spending my time like a new-money millionaire in an exclusive strip club.

Except I don't want to make it rain anymore. I really don't.

Indulge her, oh she with the tiniest of rants.

I'm appalled that so many of the Christmas crackers you can buy now contain wine charms.

(I'm aware: first world problems)

Especially since in this day and age one should never leave their drink unattended. What am I saying, 'in this day and age'. The warnings to keep an eye on your drink/keep it with you have been going around since the mid-1990s and if you think you can wander back into a room, pick up a random glass and point to the charm on it and say, Yes, I was the umbrella! That's right, and go on as if nothing happened means...well, you're probably going to tamer parties that I ever have, that's for sure.

I gave up wine a long time ago anyway. Go hard or go home, says the Scotsman and I usually snort and give him a look that says I like it when he goes hard but he means hard alcohol. And no one's going to come out with whiskey charms, because fuck that, we're smart enough to hang on to our drinks and sip them slowly, you flighty, wine-y motherfuckers.

(But if we did have markers to delineate our drinks they would be made of bone and barbed wire and maybe bits of hair and teeth, because what doesn't kill you...certainly won't drive you to collect fucking wine charms.)

Yesterday, part two.

This is mine, because what's yours is mine. Mmmkay? And I picked up the champagne bottle and walked out Caleb's front door.

(Don't worry. He owes me. Everything. Anything I want. That's the deal.)

I brought the bottle back to the house and told PJ we were having a champagne lunch.

Sorry, Bridge, you're having coffee and maybe a sandwich. 

Well...what kind of sandwich? PJ's the best parent ever. Take the coveted item and replace it with delicious possibilities.

What kind would you like? 

Radish sprouts, pickles, ham and havarti. 

Jalapenos too?

Did I ever tell you I love you so much? 

Yes but sadly only when you're drunk. 

That's not true. You're my favorite metal God. Plus you use conditioner so you have great hair. It's so shiny.

Don't ever change, Bridget. 

Because you can totally fucking tell which bands don't use conditioner, right? I mean they could all have great hair but they just don't give a fuck. If you're going to make the effort to maintain it long you should nourish it, shouldn't you?

A sandwich is slid under my nose. And a coffee. Just like that. Magic.

And then actual magic walks through the door and I realize there's an extra plate.

Lochlan! Are you off early?

No, just home for lunch and to see my baby. 

Huh? Ruth's at school. It's Tuesday. Oh, wait. I get it.

Drunk Tuesday?

GOSH. How'd you know?

A little birdie told me. 

One with really shiny hair? 

That's the one. 

(I didn't realize until much later that it was August that called him. August also uses conditioner.)

Oh, God, whatever you do please don't tell me you're lonely.

Kir Royales for breakfast and I can see what the Devil is up from to a mile away.

Through my Tuesday drunken googles, mind you.

I can't drink on Tuesdays, I guess but I can brunch any day and he found a free moment that wasn't taken up by Lochlan, Ben or PJ, who is drugging my food as I found out when I was slurring after one drink.

Caleb noted this as well and quickly made me a second, because nothing says love like incapacity, right?

Then he shoves me out the door and across the driveway in the rain because he's all about the Big Gestures, this week. The Look, I didn't hurt her (much) and the Hey, if she can still walk then clearly we're still friends kinds of declarations that only Caleb can get away with, the ones I don't think I ever actually recover from, in spite of his insistence in their harmlessness.

Though I think he would be much happier if I actually couldn't walk and then I would have to stay instead of stretching out to spread myself so thin I have broken through in places and it's getting hard to hide the patched areas again.

On my way back I stop in at the loft to see August. Unrequited needs or something something we'll make sure we put our friendship first and I find him right where drunken-Bridget wants him. Flat on his back in bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling, the bed swaying gently against the huge ropes that suspend it from the vaulted ceiling, a look on his face that says Look, I won't hurt her (much) and I don't know if we can still be friends, actually. He's a walking contradiction and the first thing he says when I come in is So?

So...Happy Tuesday! 

Have you been drinking, Bridget? 

I purse my fingers together to mean only a little and trip over his boots, landing on the floor. It's funny though. Everyone loves a vaguely drunk Bridget and he jumps up and comes over, picking me right up off the floor, standing me on my feet, vaguely amused at how hard I went down (because if I can still walk then clearly we're still friends), making sure I am steady before he lets go.

Or making sure he is steady before he lets go, because even drunk Bridget saw that before he could cover it up.

We need to talk about Sam. 

Sam is none of anyone's business. 

Sam is everyone's business! August shouts it at me and I flinch hard enough to shock my system into tears again. Was having such a good drunk too and now we're going down this road. Christ.

Don't cry, Bridget. I'm trying to protect you. 

Then don't let Caleb anywhere near me. If you could all start with that, that would be great. 

We've tried but you won't let us. 

Oh. Of course. I'm dumber than I thought. 

He's your outlet for missing Cole the same way I'm a stand-in for Jake. That's all. Dangerous maybe, but not unexpected. Completely understandable. 

So I get a pass? I waver slightly and he puts his arms out to steady me again.

Of course, he says, not realizing I just talked him into a trap.

Okay. Thank you. I have to go. 

Where are you going? 

There's free drinks down at the bottom of the hill and it's Tuesday, didn't you hear?

I hate airports, volume #4657362748595021615354219.

I never told you then that I'd be easy to love
Supposedly I'm a man but I felt like a cub
I wondered if the planes flying farther away
Not ever knowing I would never come back the same
As my lungs gave way, I swear I felt something burst
It's been 13 days and now I'm dying of thirst
For the birds who prey I pray that someone else will get here first
I am not alone, I'll be alright
Just take these bones and bring them back to life

Ben called early this morning and asked if I would send PJ or Chris to pick them up for ten.

No problem, I told him smoothly.

What are you up to today? Can I book dinner, just me and you or is it taken?

Oh, I'm so busy today with errands and Christmas shopping. I'll let you know about dinner. I played it cool. Gotta practice on someone.

In reality I was standing on the stupid grey carpet by the arrivals hall at nine-forty-five with tears threatening to fuck my composure over completely.

The tears won. I saw him coming down the hall and his whole face lit up when I yelled his name. Sorry to all the other people waiting. People look so annoyed before lunchtime. I feel bad for them. But not too bad. Because Ben. He walked really fast and then I was off the ground in his arms and the tears anointed him as mine.

Busy bee, huh?

Busy being with you.

That so?

It is.

You are the best thing about my life, you know that?

Might go both ways.

Might?

You've been gone four days. You'll have to refresh my memory.

I can do that.

Since we got home I've been in a haze of plane fuel and overwhelm, in his arms as he did indeed remind me all the things I know about him, all the things I love, and everything I missed so much while everything else threatened to distract me away from someone who does nothing but give while everyone else takes.

It has rained for 55 out of the past 59 days so you may as well just give in, already.

(I like to make Sundays not about me.)

I am the ship that will carry you to safety.

I am the ship dashed upon the rocks.

I am the anchor left behind, heaving against the rock shelf, unable to be broken out.

I am the sea that drowns you.

I am the surf that will wash you in with the tides.

I am the grains of sand, that can be molded, swept and tossed into the wind, or hardened into glass by lightning. I will sift through your fingers, falling back to the earth.

I am the rocks upon which the waves break.

I am the tall grasses waving in the wind, my shallow roots unable to hold fast.

I am the shore.

I am your peaceful place.

I am your secret hideaway.

But I am not your respite, nor your despair.

Each sentence carried a short story and each one tied in with the next. Each one was at once profound and destructive. Each one hit home with a resounding *thwock*. Each one hurt like a son of a bitch and each one was perfectly placed, perfectly told.

Each one, relayed by Sam from his place at the edge of the sea, and then from within as he waded in up to his knees for effect, in the pouring rain, the pages of Jacob's bible becoming wavy and crinkled, his hair curling from the humidity, and the water absorbing up his pantlegs until he was mostly soaked to the waist and still not truly noticing how effective his sermon was.

Until he was finished, holding the first candle of advent aloft as it sputtered in the rain, wading in from the surf, pulling himself along with his hand out for his congregation, using their momentum to bring himself to shore.

Maybe weights have been lifted. Maybe we had a really good talk last night. Maybe he just figured he's got to go one step further to keep interest in church at this time of year, when things get crushingly formulaic for him with advent beginning and he just said fuck it and did something else. He can do that, if he wants. It's a very easy church to helm.

And he's good at it.