January 29, 2002

[General] Less substantial than goats

So, I was sitting in a meeting today and part of the presentation was a mocked-up website about Aruba. Apparently, while much of the exterior of the island is quite commercial and resort-like, the interior of the island is filled with nothing more substantial than goats.

I wonder how the goats feel about that? I also wonder if it's true, or if it's just some marketing guy being cute, but I don't seem to care enough to go look it up.

However, in solidarity with the capra aegagrus of Aruba, I present something less substantial than goats.

I was sitting in the ladies room this afternoon at work, you know, in a stall,and someone walked in. I heard the distinct sound of buttons being pressed on a cell phone. I was immediately intrigued. I wonder if they know I'm here?, I thought. I wonder if they are going to call someone to check about another job, or call to have a fight with their husband or boyfriend? It was all very titillating. However, in the end, there was no call. Nothing. Nada. I guess that she might have been checking her voicemail or I might have been hearing things.

Now, I know that this would have been a better story if something had actually happened, but then it would have been more substantial than the goats. Do you see? :) Plus, it would have been fiction, when I have billed it as fact.

This, however, is fiction, a ficlet I call it, inspired by my favorite TV love-bunnies, Brian and Justin from Queer as Folk:

I watch him sleep. He's restless, still having nightmares. I watch him sleep because I can't, can't sleep, not with him next to me reliving the night that I also relive. The difference is that I relive it awake.

He turns for the nth time and I catch a glimpse of the scar. It's remarkably small, remarkably slight. Those who didn't see the blood will probably never notice it. But I saw the blood. On his head, on my hands, on my scarf. For me, the scar will always be red, bright red against the alabaster of his skin. I reach out and touch it, gently so as not to wake him. I stroke his head, try to wipe away the blood, wipe away the memory, wipe away the pain. But I can't. These things are permanent.

He begins to stir and I slam my eyes shut, afraid of being caught. He can't know that I am afraid, can't know that I care, can't know that I lie awake at night thinking about the night that I almost lost him.

I will leave you to ponder what a 35-year old woman is doing writing fan fiction. :)

Posted by Lori at January 29, 2002 2:36 PM