Bensday, my favorite day of the week.

Hah, come on prove me wrong
Tell me I'm not crazy
Or maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong

Last night Ben put his t-shirt on me to keep me warm but that's always foreplay for him, me in one of his giant tees, bare legs, neck of the shirt falling off one shoulder. He pushed me gently back down and climbed over me, and just as we got rolling he grabbed the front of the shirt, twisting it up into one hand until I lifted right off the bed and then he sat back and did things the easy way, pulling me into him. When things got too crazy, he pulled me upright, ripped the shirt off me and finished me off in his lap, joining me for a little serendipitous Ben-dark, which is the only kind I like, truth be told.

That's a weird thing I realized a long time ago. I'm terribly afraid of the dark. But not with Ben. With Ben it's his default. Everything looks better. Everything makes sense. It's so normal. With everyone else, Lochlan included, I hold my breath until I can turn the lights off and still see. Lochlan had to resort to forcing me to focus on the tiny coloured lights of the fair and fireworks and flames until I could find a way not to back myself into a corner and cry until sunrise. I don't even want to say definitively that he succeeded, the jury is still out on this, depending on the day.

Ben puts his shirt back on me, snuggling me back down into his arms, whispering words I can't even make out against the top of my head. I can use his heartbeat to fall back asleep and the soreness in my legs to warrant more rest, and we are out.

 In the morning he gets up early, kisses my cheek so gently I want to cry and showers and leaves, heading to a meeting and then returning only to disappear into his actual world, as this one is a dream in name only.

At least that's how it usually goes.

This morning he went to a meeting and then brought home egg mcmuffins and hash browns and coffee, and we had breakfast in bed, me a walking t-shirt with legs, him a huge handsome fully-dressed-in-bed kind of guy. We stretched our legs out straight from sitting up against the headboard and if I point my toes my legs only go to the bottoms of his knees if you draw a line straight across the bed.

His eyebrows raise but he says nothing, enjoying sipping his coffee and giving up his favorite t-shirts.

I think I'll take the day off. 

Really?

If the rest is as good as the past few hours then I'd be a fool not to. What are your plans?

Spring cleaning, taxes, painting. 

So I should or are you too busy?

You definitely should. Everything else can wait. 

Or I can help you and we'll get it done twice as fast. 

Okay, do you want to paint pictures for the book or do taxes?

I can clean. 

Do the windows? 

On it. But he isn't. He's on me again, because like I said, he loves me in his shirts.

How is this doing windows?

Window to your soul or something, he says, pushing the hem of the shirt up to my neck, starting all over again.

Good enough for me.

Rushing to sanctify my soul.

What happened to us
I heard that it's me we should blame
What happened to us
Why didn't you stop me from turning out this way

And know that I don't hate you
And know that I don't want to fight you
And know that I'll always love you
But right now I just don't

Champagne bottle in one hand, other arm outstretched for balance, I am reliving my dreams walking the tightropes of saltwater-soaked logs on the beach while he watches from right out on the point where the tide threatens to touch his bare feet.

The bottle is heavy and I'm drunk at five am, off-balance and ready to be applauded by the sun as it crests the mountains, picking up speed on its plan to illuminate my heart.

I take another drink because fuck it, if the bottle is lighter I can stay up here longer and Jesus, I miss my life. I miss sleeping until noon, stealing food and charming the lost souls that came looking for entertainment, not even realizing that we were about to grift them for every spare dollar they could find.

I close my eyes and the room goes dark, the crowd noise fading away as I focus on Lochlan's voice.

Until he starts yelling.

I open my eyes and he's halfway down the steps, hollering about something, but probably about the fact that the sea stacked these logs on my behalf and they're not safe.

Caleb turns around and tells me to continue, that Lochlan's going to pin every last wrong of the world on him and really we can choose to cower at the sound of his anger or we can live free. He's fifty-seven today and this is our third bottle of Good Birthday Champagne because?

We can, he says and laughs, stepping backwards into the surf and soaking the legs of his jeans.

Wow, I might not be the only one drunk down here. Cool.

Lochlan takes the other end of the log, crossing to me in seconds. He takes and tosses the bottle at Caleb (not overhand but I bet he thought about it), grabbing my hand in a death grip and then his weight shifts what was a perfect good challenge and the whole thing begins to slide sideways. He pulls me with him and we're off the end and back on the rocks just as the logs collapse back into the water. Had I remained where I was I would have been crushed or drowned. Had he not added his weight to an untested wire there wouldn't have been any danger to begin with but if there's blame to place Lochlan's going to bury you in it. He has no room for semantics, he's as black and white as Jake used to be.

Wait, he's the original and maybe Jake was a lot like Lochlan and Lochlan wasn't there anymore and maybe that's how I got sucked in, like I would have gotten sucked into the sea under the logs as they shifted, throwing my whole routine. The sea lions don't mind, but they're not paying for entry either so I don't put any stock in that.

As always. Go for the marks, he said and I did and now he's mad.

Punch-sleepy, more on the bees.

Baking cakes at six in the morning is a love affair of a whole different kind, perfectly normal in my snowglobe-universe, and if you shake it today you'll see nonpareils float down through the air instead of glitter. Pearl sugars are my other favorite decorating medium when it comes to kinds of sprinkles, as edible glitter leaves a weird texture on things and you know what? I missed my calling. I should have been a cake boss.

I am a cake boss, of here anyway, but mostly when it comes to eating.

Tonight's dinner is a surprise but a solid favorite and something I can make. Tonight's dinner is a relief after the lack of contact last night left everyone breathing easier, no longer concerned that I may return in tears with my other ear bitten half-off, no longer tense and clipped with each other as olive branches are easier to eat than betrayals. They are less tough with no hard outer shell to crunch through. They digest, as it were and for the time being everyone is jovial and kind. Brotherly, even.

Which is sad to say because brothers are brothers no matter what, except for in this family, where the moniker of Brother is bestowed and kept only if you make Bridget happy. 

But I don't fault him for that. He's really doing his best.

Stay in bed, Bridget. I'll make it worth your while. He's kissing bees again. He's named them all. Beauregard, Wyatt, Luke. Butch. Butler. Will. Earl. Cowboy names.

They're all boys?

They're all worker bees, and you are their queen. 

Oh my God, that's so cheesy, Locket. 

Cheesy-bees?

Are you drunk?

No, I'm tired. Why are we up at six in the morning to bake cakes for the Devil again? Dinner's not til seven tonight. 

They need time to cool. 

HE needs time to cool. 

Hey. 

Yes?

Not today. Let's make today nice. 

I wish he'd step in a swarm of be-

Lochlan!

Fucking up birthdays, part one.

The unmistakable sound as Sam said my name, calling me back into covenant, bathing me in the light of Jesus before I even set foot in the church. When we arrived I (all but eight years old here, as ever) took off to visit with the overly-friendly chickadees that enjoy my pockets full of sunflower seeds stocked on purpose for them now on days when I go to church. For once it's not cold and pouring rain but based on the general state of spring here in the rainforest, Sam is keeping church indoors to save himself the liability of someone slipping on the rocks. Our own steps at home are dipped in green and murderous with moss. You would think it would be great since it looks so incredible but it's simply nature's deathtrap, a fight back against building inorganic shapes in an organic setting.

Caleb has graciously deferred and I let him. Now isn't a good time. We'll host a family dinner with cake and speeches but a private birthday date is off the books for the time being. He's not short on basic affection but I'm trying to hold myself together here and the boys are still skittish about his teeth and based on everything and nothing lately we're just going to maybe wait until later in the spring. He is concerned that he'll end up as Batman has, being pushed off indefinitely.

I gave up Batman the same week I gave up haircuts, and it has indeed been over a year. My hair is almost halfway down my back and I don't have the complication of yet another man to muck  up all the things that seem to be going to well right now.

I can skirt around the hole. I can pretend I don't see the ghosts. I can appreciate and be so grateful for this one fiery soul who lays it all on the line, handing me his flaming heart, expecting so little in return.

So little that I gave him everything and exposed myself to him. He kissed every last bee in turn and pulled me in against him, not letting go until the dark faded back into the light. He's bit his lip and let me fumble, let me try and make decisions and let me learn and grow and figure it out and I love him for it. It would have been easier and safer for both of us had he just been heavy-handed and succinct but that's not who he is.

And I feel like I've grown. As messy as this is, with my heart handing off small pieces to break and share, a reluctant communion, my blood pounding through the veins of everyone here on the point or so it sometimes seems, with the offers to give it all up and hope for the best or lay it all out and see if it works he is cautious but open. I've never been able to figure this part of it out but he asked once if I remember the saying if you love something set it free.

You came back, he said. We've had this conversation before, Peanut.

Because I'm yours, I remind him without reservation.

Because you're mine, he repeats with a smile.

Self-aware? Nah.

The Collective is a mosaic, born of broken glass and shells, cemented back together into a beautiful image so distracting you forget the destruction required to make it. That's us. That's honestly us.

Caleb is thrilled with Batman's rare revelations, excited to be in first place, all the while knowing his brother is sick with a need no one should have.

I have half a mind to cancel the birthday as well, an impulsive desire of my own in which the evil isn't rewarded while the good remain unfulfilled.

But I never go that way. I never meet them in their games, truth be told, I don't manipulate one against another anymore nor do I look past the end of my fingertips to see anything other than what's in it for me. A problem in itself, mind you, but also a far less complicated one overall.

Batman came back around last night anyway and we spoke of it, biting back the difficult sins like lust and greed, trying to smother everything with a thin lacquer of values, opaque to the harsh sheen of the facts, ma'am and yes, it's a problem.

I need a clone, a spine, or a personal assistant. I need a megaphone or a billboard maybe. It will tell them how I feel. It will be backlit with my moods. Red for STOP FUCKING TOUCHING ME and blue for when I've fallen into the hole.

I need them to understand that things are going to have to change.

I need to stand behind Lochlan for a little bit while he fights a battle without a smug expression or a wounded heart, and I need everyone to just take a few steps back so I can run off in front, instead of running after everyone all the time.

It's so tenuously good right now and they're trying to ruin it, best they can.

Manifesting a difference (keep on moving).

There's beauty in the butterfly
But also in the moth
There's beauty in the sinner before and after he got lost
There's beauty in the traitor if freedom's on the line
There's beauty in the outcast if beauty saves your life
And I keep on moving

Batman smooths my bangs back and takes my whiskey, putting it on the side table while pulling me in closer on his lap. He hugs me against his chest and I feel a deep sigh from his as he exhales into my hair.

Your hair has gotten so long.

You saw me a week ago.

Touching it. I like it.

All millionaires have the same moves. The same abject comments on appearances, which isn't warranted or welcomed but they do it anyway as if their mere approval is influence. I secretly vow never to cut it again.

(Oh I'm KIDDING. Christ. They all have varying opinions on my hair. If I want it long I grow it out. If I decide I can't stand it for another minute, I chop it all off. It's just hair.)

It's been more than a week, Bridget. His hands loop around my hips. He seems so content and I reach over for my drink and bring it back so there's at least something between us other than my dress and his shirt and pants.

It's been more than a year. He continues as he picks up his own glass and empties it into his face decisively, as if he has been dared.

You have quotas?

Oh, it was a flip comment and there goes the glass, sailing through the air in slow motion, exploding against the doorframe in a shower of stars.

Turn off the music.

I bit my lip and leave his arms to do as he asks. I guess I hit a nerve and my spirit animal told him everything he needed to know tonight.

There's beauty in the knowing and in the wishing that you could
Like magic ain't a miracle
Just your cards misunderstood
Well there's beauty in our doing
Though diminished in our name
The same beauty in a snowfall is also in a flame
There's beauty in creation as there's beauty in its loss
There's beauty in the sinner before and after he got lost
And I keep on moving

*(If you need a refresher, my spirit animal is Matthew Good and he put out a brand new album that is likely the most beautiful one of all.)

Annual conversations, annual best-laid plans.

(I don't even think I have to name names so I'll let you guess and answer it tomorrow.)

What are you giving up this year?

Who, you mean?

Bridge-

I thought about giving up campfire smells or music or sugar or the Devil but then I realized I could work on myself a little.

Go on.

So I'll try to give up boundless worrying.

No more fretting?

Right.

How's that going?

It's really rough.

He laughs and pulls me in, planting a kiss on the top of my head, I'm just happy I'm not on the list.

So I gather you're not giving me up for Lent this year?

Wouldn't dream of it.

Mu-sea-um.

 I got lazy this afternoon while doing a warm-up painting and instead of going upstairs to my extensive collection of shells and sea glass, organized in giant glass jars on a table in a windowed hall, I googled for sea urchin shell photos.

To my dismay I found a whole heaping pile of sand dollar photographs, which is sad until I noticed a bunch of heart-shaped sand dollar ones.

And now it's my dream to find a heart-shaped sand dollar because I definitely need one of those. Please don't tell me it's an exclusive region-specific anomaly, I'd rather just keep searching. That's what I did with the glass fishing floats, of which I have three now. I'll go to the ends of the earth to find things and then I keep them dear.

Aristotle's lanterns, indeed.

I'm not so much a mermaid, but a scavenger. A collector, I assure Lochlan.

A beneficiary, he suggests, to be kind.

Updated with actual useful chitchat.

I went all the way out to the valley early to clear my head, talking to Mark on the phone via bluetooth about a future project sometime soon (before my birthday, maybe) and stopped to deliver the Porsche's big summer tires, gas up where it's cheap and then I was home just a little while ago, voices quiet in my head, no one listening in (anymore, anyway) and big plans to have coffee with Sam on the patio.

What's up, Bridge?

I just miss you. Usually you would have come to me a week ago to make sure the pancakes were planned for tonight and that we were all ready with our pledges for Lent and this year nothing. The last time there was nothing I didn't know you and hadn't met you yet.

What are planning to give up this year? 

Apparently, you. 

Bridge, I've been-

Busy. I know. Matt has replaced us all. 

You told me to be independent. 

So you switched from needing us to needing him? I haven't even done that ever and look at my loves.

We're trying not to turn Matt into the point's unwelcome interloper. 

If he wasn't welcome he wouldn't be here. It's almost as if you two are skulking around in the off hours and we haven't seen you at all. 

A lot was said about him coming back, Bridge. 

And it's the end of February and all is still well?

All is well. 

Then come for dinner tonight. We're having pancakes. We'll go around the table and set our intentions and have a good time. 

Okay. 

Okay?

Yes. 
 

Not biting.

Lochlan's laugh is bitter and somewhat incredulous. So he's just going to go along behind me and appropriate my ideas? 

I don't know what he's doing. 

Don't worry, I'll be asking him. I'd rather he engage you on his big failure trips like last year. Works better for me. Fire is my thing, not his. His thing is money and he can have it. 

So that's a no?

Hell yeah it's a no, but I'll be the bad guy. 

***

Late last evening Caleb knocks on the doorframe. I look over my shoulder from where I sit wrapped in a blanket on the front porch, my Irish coffee all but forgotten as I draw while listening to the Blackout podcast. I finished Gaslight and I must say I'm really enjoying these while I paint. You get sucked right in but you don't have to take your focus off your work.

You can come out, no need to knock. This is a public space. 

I like your delineations on spaces here on the point. 

It seems to work. What's up?

You look very cozy. 

I'm enjoying the rain. 

So again I've missed the mark trying to plan an evening with all of your favourite elements, according to Pyro. I've chosen a bit of a re-do on your Valentine's Day and I'd like to plan something a little different with you now. I was mistaken in trying to keep it close to home, I think.

Diabhal. 

Yes, Neamhchiontach. 

It's your birthday, what would be fun? 

Dinner at a jazz club and some dancing, maybe a movie after.

Then that's what we should do.Though you know I'll sleep through the movie.

I know. Then you can stay the night. 

He's never going to allow-

It's just wishful thinking, Neamhchiontach. Let an old man have that.