via Daily Prompt: Loop
“Hey do you have any spare change? I’m looking to buy something real nice like your girlfriend… not that you’re something to purchase you’re not something to purchase lady,” she uttered with a slurred, yet quick release of the tongue. She thought she had to get it all out in a single breath if she wanted to be heard at all. I can only assume she has mere seconds to make a lasting impression on passers by.
This woman, this street stranger, called out to us as we briskly walked in the fresh fall of summertime rain. It wasn’t the objectification that caught my ear as we trod hand in hand. It was this single word: girlfriend. My stomach filled with boisterous butterflies; my heartbeat quickened. It had been a long time since the word girlfriend meant something simple and sweet as opposed to a sour aftertaste in the mouth. My mind conjured up daydreams of days past in your arms, and days future still ahead of us. In reality, this was our fourth date. The boyfriend/girlfriend titles were not yet brought up in conversation. We were infants, mere children in terms of getting to know each other, but to me it felt as if you were a lost winter mitten found in the wrong season. Something familiar, and something unexpectedly needed as the coolness of Spring lingered.
Meeting you was a snap decision, gone right. Your teddy bear hugs, your warm embrace and concern for my comfort and happiness is genuine. The way your soft eyes sparkle behind your dark circular glasses plays on repeat, in an endless loop in my brain. There’s new circuitry carved in sulci and altered white matter pathways from my head to my heart. From my heart, to the tips of my fingers and toes, I can conjure up remnants of your touch.
Yes, sometimes I am a mess. I’m more than anyone can handle, well, more than I want anyone to be capable of handling because I am an independent-fully-functional-adult-female. Hear. Me. Roar. But, don’t ever see me weep (or be vulnerable or in pain or in weakness).
I’ve thrown my beating heart at people, bloody and in bits. Each time hoping and praying to God that I’ve chosen a surgeon with gentle, meticulous strokes of the needle (or scalpel, because we all know sometimes things have to get worse before they get better). Bonus points if the surgeon is a buff single suitor, you know, to repair my teenage lust and wandering eyes.
Without doing research, without simply checking myself into the hospital where surgeons are known to be, I desperately throw bloody bits of cardiac tissue in the streets. Someone take it, mend it and return it to be in bandages so that the healing can properly begin.
Have your share of my brokenness busy mom in the grocery store, slender young boy skateboarding the local roads and sun-bathing goddess on the beach. Never mind that you have your own wants and worries, and your own scars and mangled arterial pumps. If I am going down in the rabbit hole of darkness, self-loathing and pity you are more than welcome to join. We can wallow together. The waxing and waning moon will be our solace. We will gather, we will find and one day a surgeon will save us.
Other times I think I can do anything.
Clear the walkway folks, Cheeserella coming through. Princess of the local fair – I have amounted to my true potential.
Take two steps back and a shot of whiskey and everything becomes clear again. Big picture, I am a mere speck on this earth.
I am not invincible. We are not invincible.
“Catapult me to the moon,” cried Aria as her father lifted and thrust her tiny body towards the sky with his chiseled arms.
Aria spread her arms wide and pretended to fly away. Her strawberry blonde hair gracefully danced in harmony with the wind. Seconds past, but to her it felt like hours. She yearned to live in the bright sky, the clouds to be called home, and the sun and moon her playmates. With giggles and gleeful shouts she uttered, “Again, Dad! Again!” She never wanted it to end.
Without hesitation he tossed her over and over again, higher and higher until the sun began to fall.
The pair grew older together and his elbows groaned under the repetitive weight sooner than ever before. By the time the girl was 6 years old, her aged father spitefully continued their ritual. He came home weary. He went to bed weary – in a state of physical tranquility, his mind turned and raced. He plotted and devised plans no parents should ever make.
He dreamed of tossing his daughter into the heavens. He imagined launching his baby girl up to the atmosphere and having her fail to comply with the laws of gravity. Little did he know that his dreams, were her dreams too.
Written via: Daily Prompt: Catapult
As I have, and will always love to do. This piece is unedited, raw and random as heck. Thought it up quickly using the prompt and just ran with it. Hope you enjoy, and it provokes some sort of thoughts or feelings.