He sat on the patio in the backyard, reading my story. The sunlight glinted in his eyes as he tried to read the words on the white paper before him. I wondered, would he like it? Would he see how much of him was in the story? How much of me? I sat and clipped my nails while he read, trying to be nonchalant about it. He agreed to read it and edit it, which scared me. What would he think…uh-oh, the pen in his hand is moving, he just started.
Ok, just clip my nails, don’t look, don’t watch.
I can’t help but look. Each pen stoke that he makes sends curiosity coursing through me. I tried to focus on the music playing in the background. Just listen, clip my nails. I took a sip from my Big Gulp, he squinted. The cup had been blocking the reflection of the sun off the glass-topped table. I sipped, and then put the cup back down, adjusting it so that it blocked the sun’s rays.
More pen strokes. He’s still on the first page… Why did I let him read it? This is going to be torture. I am done clipping my nails. What now?
The song changed, this music is too mellow for my mood. Maybe it will calm my curiosity.
We have talked about him reading it and editing it since I began it four weeks ago. But now I was having second thoughts. I wanted to rip it from his hands.
We talked before he picked up the manuscript, I told him that I had poured much of myself into this one. Maybe too much. Maybe that was why I didn’t want him to read it. Didn’t want him to edit it. Maybe he would see the me that I hide from him, From the world.
I can’t take this, I have to leave. I go in and sit on the sofa, trying not to think about it. I take pen in hand and begin writing. What am I writing? I don’t know, I have to write something…anything.
He follows me onto the sofa. He sits next to me. No. I can’t take it. Please go back outside. I can’t bear to watch.
It’s 3:12. I don’t know why that matters. But it does. How long will it take him? I’m anxious to know.
I chew on the Snickers bar sitting on the coffee table. I think I revealed my soul. This one is different. It is me. It is all my faults, all my insecurities, all my doubts. Will he recognize them?
Yes he will. What will he say?
Will he even recognize what I am saying. It took me a while to recognize it. It came without my knowing it. The words flowed on the paper like water down a stream. Turbulent, tumultuous, twirling out of control. Eventually coming to rest in a quiet pond, reflecting the light of the sun in his face while he tried to read my life.
© 2/12/10
Jaunty-Rabbit 