~ LOST AND FOUND~

.:: Chapter 1 ::.

I look over to the left from my seat at the desk and squint my eyes. The clock blinks the time like a musicians metronome. 5:18 A.M. I slide the chair I have been sitting in the last few hours back and stand up stiffly, stretching my arms, stretching my legs; like a wolf waking for the morning hunt. My weary gaze shifts to the long and slightly narrow windows that line the east side of my room. Often, through these windows, I take in the last few moments of peace and restful darkness that accompanies early mornings. The kind of otherworldly lifelessness that tricks you into feeling like you're the last person on Earth. Everything is absolutely still; everything, infinitely quiet. I pause at this eerie observation of loneliness, of life in a vacuum, and rest my eyes. They are sore and dry. Despite a herculean Evergreen and some small bushes that almost block my view, I can see clearly enough to see the houses across the street. I can remember the people who used to live in them. Good people. Kind people. I barely know any of them living there now. The song playing on through my stereo is slowly fading out. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up in expectation of a song that surely must follow. But nothing occurs. The silence rings in my ears and then suddenly stops. The quiet seeps back into my room, ghostly chilling. Despite pulling my comforter around me tighter, I feel the cold penetrate even the warmest parts of my body. I tilt my head and look up and over the houses, trying to imagine the sunrise that would be coming.

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The sunrise is the most loyal part of nature. It never ceases to be timely or to be inspiring. My vision of the sun rising is always idealistic and dreamy. As if I'm always living it for the first time. As if its awe is always new. The gold-orange-pink sun, creeping upon the dark horizon, born from the earth, spreading rose-pink and violet streamers across the sky. Tearing away the Moons grip on the night, tearing away at the darkness. Beautiful, pure, and amazing. The natural light would flood my room like a spotlight. It would cause me to squint until my eyes adjusted to the change. The warmth of the sun would stroke my face pleasantly and nip the nights chill out of my bones. Turning around slowly, I break free of my wandering thoughts. Slow is the only speed I have right now. My muscles creak and ache with every step I take, as if they're singing cheers for the coming joy of finally resting. Its been a long day. Or has it been days? My body knows this but my mind has not caught up with it until now. I can only manage a limp dive. A body flop, if you will, into bed. It feels like I'm being soaked into it; molecule by molecule, sleepy atom by sleepy atom. I feel the warmth conducting in my pillows immediately. They plant ideas of how nice it is to be to be tucked away and distanced from the outside world. Wrapped up in blankets, like an unborn child, deep inside the womb. Yet here I am, in my make-shift womb, wrapped up in blankets and coming down from probably the worst trip Ive ever had so far in my self-indulging and reckless foray into drugs. A long and breathy sigh escapes. A long release from a deep lung full of air. The feeling of numbing relief that rest brings is setting in

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pleasantly. I move sluggishly like an incoherent drunk into my normal sleeping position. The perfect coordination of arms and legs that just completely relaxes you, that you almost always fall asleep in, but never recall waking up in. Mine is on my stomach with my left leg slightly extended and bent at the knee. My arms cross under my head, I barely use even the corner of my pillow. A lot of times its on the floor when I wake up. It's this kind of thinking that pushes those bothersome 'keepyou-up-at-night' thoughts into oblivion. I can feel sleep himself tapping on my eye lids. They close and open repeatedly, just a little slower after each time. The expectation of sleep is always unbearable. And then one second later, you're awake. Not tonight. In a painfully slow rage, comfort seizes my spine like a warm hand sliding up from the small of my back towards my neck. It invades my body; my conscious still reluctant to except so cordially this rapture. I can feel the chemicals purging themselves, all the little globs of L.S.D. running full speed to my spine, pushing and knocking each other over. Evacuate! Get out while you can! I've resigned to just lay here, dead to the world. I lay here, waiting for it to end. My eyes flitting, open-close-open-close. Slower to open. Slower to close. When my eyes close for longer than they should, shadows take form under my eye lids. Wolves running down my dresser, chasing the rabbit thats not there. Sounds that normally would be explainable became unexplainable and frighten me. Colors swirl and twirl. Lifelessness finds life in my drug use, and I find, engulfed in all that haze, a sense of clarity through feeling infinitely lost. Some patchouli oil smelling hippie told me this is called ego death. I had to look it up. I think he's right. The hours pass. I dream of what my life used to be like. Not

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that its changing deserves such attention, but I've noticed who I used to be, and who I am now. This sort of acknowledgment of change, it leaves me feeling awkward about myself. Maybe Im not really me? Maybe Im just a front for someone else in this mind. Maybe I'm already asleep and dreaming? The images, the memories they come like always, in a creeping fog. In a stutter step way, slowly materializing into clean sharp images of the past. They sort of crystallize in memory this way, as if you're looking through a window in which the view is the outside of yesterday. My first fireworks. Little league. Roaming in the forest preservation. Vibrant green foliage everywhere and fallen trees to walk on. A prevailing naive sense of peace; of the appreciable nonconsequential aspects of life which we commonly mistake for irresponsibility. With no regrets, and with hopes for true slumber, I let go of these introspective thoughts and let the drug run its course. After all, thats all you can really do. Tripping 101: You take a bunch of hallucinogens and wait for it to end. And yes, dont expect to sleep. Ive been awake for about 18 hours longer than I should have been. I think. *** In the blink of a dream, my mind begins waking up in that confused and sluggish way that happens when youre half asleep. Instinct tells me what it should be. I stretch my left arm up and over for what should be the individual in bed with me to move closer. I wake up fully, confused, when I realize no one is really there. A phantom. Nothing but the ghost of the memory of someone.

~ LOST AND FOUND~

The hope of someone. Hello drug use! Nice to see you again! No one had been there in the first place. No one has been there beside me for 3 months now. Three months may not seem like a long time to some. To me, something that had been happening for two years and suddenly leaves you...even a single month can be very lonely. Drugs will prey on such things. They prey on hopes and dreams and fantasy and pain, on regret, and most of all, fear. Thats why they intrigue us, despite all perfectly logical warnings. (This might kill you! This might warp your young mind for eternity!) I look around my room, eyes still dilated to nothing but pools of blackness, pupils darting back and forth through sleep ridden slits. The fan has been on all night like usual. Its 'white-noise' hum sedates my mind. I listen tentatively to it. Absorbing the relaxing feelings rather than hearing or feeling it. I have all the intentions to lay here and enjoy this warm paradise as best as I can for as long as I can. I've never noticed until this moment how incredibly sacred where we sleep has become. How many hours do we spend laying there? Think of everything else were known to do in bed, too. What else is sacred? Religion? Love? Most likely we lay there more than we spend time showing someone we love them. Definitely more often then finding Faith. Love is not an appropriate tool of measure. Can you really measure love in man-hours? I hope not. That would be awful. A timecard for love? I have a feeling more people would be fired than reach retirement. One thing is for sure. Sleep is definitely not as involved as love. If it was, I would be a connoisseur of both, instead of just one. Ill let you come to your own conclusions. Feeling more alert, my eyes open a bit more.

~ LOST AND FOUND~

I yawn. Im thirsty. Not like a casual my-palette-could-use-alittle-something, but a wretched feeling like I've spent a week in the Sahara. The dangling thing in the back of my throat feels like it's stuck to the inside of my mouth. I reach blindly for my night stand and find a glass of water there. It could be a few days old. Itll have to do. While setting the glass back down, I see rustling outside the windows. I try to focus on all the noise and movement outside in the bushes but my currently lack of small muscle coordination doesn't allow me. A cat bursts out of no where, prancing through the air, slowly tiptoeing to one of my windows. I watch him stare at me, his bushy tail whipping side to side like a serpent with a fur coat on. I smile. His pudgy whiskered little cat lips open and mew a muffled noise. Why is he still out? His sound and body language scream indignation to his plight. Thats probably what hes trying to let me know. Why do I still have this cat? Dogs are much more masculine. I should get a dog. A little scrappy one with bad eye site, maybe a physical handicap, like only 3 legs. And I could put a patch on his bad eye. I twist out of bed, still wrapped in my blanket, and shuffle over to the window. I pull the window up some. He takes some ridiculously meticulous cat steps in, lays on the window sill, staring at me. Sure, he wants to be inside, but he doesn't want to seem too eager. Typical. A dog lets you know what he wants and shows gratification. I wrap myself up tight and lay gently back into bed. I feel my consciousness slipping through my fingers as my eyes bat shut. I intended to lock myself in my room until this all wore off. If I can't sleep, I may give in to the itching feeling to wander and take in the world through my dilated sense of perception.

~ LOST AND FOUND~

I stare off into my eye lids, the hours flip by some more, and I wait. And wait. After awhile, things begin to get less interesting. I begin to feel more human again, more normal. I must be coming down pretty steadily. What seems like a split second after that thought, but must have been hours, I hear a car coming down the street. It clearly stopped in front of my house. The engine shuts off and I can tell only one door had opened and closed. During the seconds long interval of the one door opening and closing, the stereo was barely audible with my window open. I close my eyes, I grin lopsidedly. I can't help it. One person comes to mind. That person has approached my front door and is knocking. With my room in close proximity of the door, I can hear that as well. Shave-and-a-hair-cut...Two-bits. Does everyone knock like that? Its such a generic knock. I wait. Another knock. This time, simply 5 hard raps against the metal storm-door. And I wait. After a brief moment I hear steps approaching my window. I receive a faint whiff of some flowery perfume carried in with the breeze. My smile grows. Happiness, comfort, fun...all these thoughts and feelings rush back when I smell that wonderful smell. How wonderful are the smells that make you smile. I hear my window sliding up more. Rusty, my cat, who just happens to be a gift from this person, meowed and jumped off of the window to my dresser. I engage my best skills as an improv actor to pretend that I'm asleep. I feel like a little kid again, pretending to be asleep to fool mom and dad for some mundane reason.

~ LOST AND FOUND~

A shuffle, four steps across my carpet, and someone lays next to me. This time I'm positive someone is there. This ones real. Still, the thought nags me; what if it's not? How do you know? When I open my eyes, is it going to be just another illusion? Is it the presence of the person that makes it real, or the intentions and feelings and all those human complexities of that person that make it real? There's tugging at my blanket. Her feminine hands creep into my tight cocoon, down my chest, and to her intended destination. I moan. Not a good moan. And then wince. "Why are your hands always so cold?" I ask, sleepily, eyes still closed tightly. "Because doing this would be just so dull and pointless," she replied. It's Mary. She's a person that you can actually hear her when she smiles, and I definitely hear one right now. A five foot eight inch brunette with a good sense of humor and eyes that just make you go weak like a Gumby doll cooked in a microwave. We've known each other for a long time. We go through phases of being just friends and almost more than friends. Through years of thicks and thins we've always stood by each other. She was there when I had to bury my family. She was there when I left college. She is here now when I'm stuck and can't figure things out. We've been two peas in a pod for a very long time. We know each other well. We know each other too well. I've always wondered about what we could be. Recently, in particular, I've thought about what coming home to her would be like. I've wondered what being between her legs would be like, what calling her mine would be like. She has always been a friend. I'm sure you know what the difficulty and confusion in this is. Now that Im thinking about it, again, where's the fun in something completely and utterly platonic? I know for myself theres

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always that little voice in my head telling me what I would or wouldnt do, given certain circumstances, with most of my female friends. That probably just makes me a pig. Isnt that what women call men who think like that? I honestly believe in the old adage, we're only human. After living life long enough, how can you not? Only animals controlled by nature, right? At least this is how I justify the thoughts to myself. Deep inside I know normal people didnt have friendships like this. Yet, the cynic inside always asks me, Who's normal? If there are normal people, they can go fuck themselves. I may need that feeling of universality to the human condition more than I need the cynicism. I open my eyes to see that Mary has gotten out of bed and is now sitting in that old oak chair I had been in last night and morning. We look at each other for a moment or two, both of us searching each others eyes for what each other had been thinking and we smile. My eyes are sore with sleep, my throat parched and yearning for more to drink. "How long is it going to take you to get ready today? Two hours? Three?" She questions me politely. She's been known to call me a 'diva' from time to time. She always wildly over exaggerates. But I have this thing. If my morning routine doesnt go well, my whole day is fucked. Its been like this for as long I can remember. If I rush just one aspect, I could be cranky all day. I am completely willing to acknowledge that its weird. I stare blankly into her eyes, a combination of amber and green, desperately trying to grasp onto something sarcastic enough to say, but every recently exhausted brain cell seems to fail me at the same time. By the time she blinks twice I realize she's trying desperately to be patient with me. Abandon sarcasm. "I can be ready in.... I pause as the wheels turn, ...thirty

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minutes...If I try." "If you try?" She doesn't seem amused. As I twist around in my bed to find a more comfortable spot, my spine pops a few vertebrae loudly. Oh, now that feels so good. "If I try," I grin to myself. She jabbed me hard in the ribs with her knuckles, and I can imagine her smiling while doing so. I spin around quickly in an instinctual protective mode, grabbing her hands, which are still ice cold, and pull her off of the chair onto the bed and we wrestle a bit. She was fun like that. A girl who can get physical in a nonsexual way is big turn on. Ironically so. We twist around a bit and somehow she works her way into straddling me, her arms having pinned mine down. She wins. "Come on, stop joking around," she declares,"We have a lot of things to do today. Remember? She pauses and searches my face for some form of recognition, You do remember, dont you?" She looks at me incredulously. Of course I do, not so sure that I do, I lie. No surprise, I forgot. It doesnt matter though. I never have much to do as it is. Your eyes look dilated. She's on to me. I'm just tired, I lied again. I motion to her with a nod and then proceed to stand out of bed, still wrapped in my blanket. Mary opts to hold on. She wraps her legs around my mid section and arms around my neck. I can smell her perfume again. I think I sort of subconsciously did things like this to remind her that I lose for the sake of good sportsmanship, even though I dont really need to. Its just some stupid masculinity thing I guess. I think she enjoys it too. She slides off, pulling my comforter off with her. I turn and push her onto the bed. She just lays there. I'm beginning to think she woke me up in a conspiracy to take

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my spot in the bed. Drugs have been known to make people paranoid. She looks really comfortable. Warm, soft, and all girly-smell-good...I want to jump back in with her...I want to tear her clothes off, feel her body pressed against mine, the tension and electricity of naked skin rubbing against naked skin. I'm naked and probably giving myself an erection in front of her. I could blame it on morning wood? Instead, I painfully ignore the urge and take some small halfawake shuffles over to my long mirror-on-the-wall. I always feel awkward saying that. I feel crooked and conceited whenever I do so. But thats exactly what it is. A mirror. Which happens to be located on the wall. I look myself over once, turn left, and stride to my dresser. I yank out a pair of black boxer-briefs. I slide them on and turn around, half expecting Mary to still be watching me. Casual nudity has meant almost nothing to us. I suppose it all started in high-school. Fake I.D.'s, a lack of parental involvement, one lucky sonofabitch with a pool, and it all equals drunk and hormone engorged teenagers skinny dipping. After that, there's the inevitable college experiences: coed dorm floors, random hook ups, one porta-potty at the frat party, having to fireman carry her drunk ass two miles while picking up her spilled purse belongings.... At least, this is how I've justified it. I do imagine, if I just started to strip in front of her for no reason whatsoever, she might be startled. We have a strange relationship. Bending down to sift through a cardboard box on my floor, I look for a little more to put on. While I'm searching through a corrugated box, she gets up and turns around, poking through the collection of general disarray on my desk.

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Have you ever moved, and instead of taking time to unpack and organize, just lived out of boxes for a few weeks? No? Maybe its a me thing then. Im not sure why, but its been a year and a half and I just cant seem to concentrate hard enough or long enough to actually unpack. The real kicker here is that I didnt even move. I was just hoping I would move if I packed everything up. Every few months I feel like I need to just get up and go. I've always ended up halfway, or not even that much. My life: muted progress and unfinished business. A new t-shirt appeared and I slipped that on, tossing the packaging onto my bed. I stood in front of the mirror again, this time rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, while assessing the need to shave. Something from last night tinged my memory and I thought of Mary. My gaze reflects onto her from the mirror. I can see her standing there with her back to me. I start trying to conjure up what I should remember we're doing today. Her hair is up, as usual, and a few of her quietly pleasant and soft curls are hanging down loosely. She has jeans on that make guys thankful women wear them and a tight fitted t-shirt. She looks relaxed. Unfortunately, she looks ready to do just about anything not involving butlers and h'orderves. Even excellent powers of deduction won't help me out today. I can't even attempt to lie my way through this one. I'm going to have to just ask. Youre awfully persistent today, I subtly question with a statement. Doing so is really an art. I'm not sure if people do it to artificially implant the suggestion that they are right, or if its a low level psychic thing, and we actually know what were saying. Im trying to find your camera, thats all.

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What for? Youll find out later. Now hurry up and get dressed. Yessum ma, I drawl as best as I can. She responds with a faint chuckle, just barely enough to acknowledge my attempt at humoring her. Shes normally a very lighthearted person. Somethings up. At least it seems like it. I think. If I know, then why do I feel so infinitely vulnerable? Women are so good at doing that. I continue looking in the mirror, and for no apparent reason, it slowly comes to me. I look myself in the eyes and realize I left something out last night. Problems may arise. She has moved from the desk top to the draws, the small of her back is showing, those 2 dimples that make guys drool just barely exposed. Then again, what is so wrong with problems? Problems require action, actions require decisions, decisions require thinking and thinking requires brain power. As a man, I feel hardwired to instinctively solve problems. But does that mean I'm instinctively hardwired to get INTO problematic situations? Is it possible were bred to hate problems because idiots and malcontents dont like thinking? My thoughts are wandering. The acid has left me loopy, I need to focus. I need to focus beyond Mary and her dimples. To my shear unprepared wuss-like terror, she turns around and looks at me, finding me looking at her. She smiles. I love her smile. It's a smile that make's birds appear and your stomach go wobbly. It's a smile that can make you smile. A smile that can dissolve situations. A smile that causes nervous chortles. I bob my eye brows in a form of acknowledgment, more of an attempt at downplaying the interaction, and turn around to the mirror,

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feigning vain interest in myself. She wraps her arms around my stomach, resting her head on my back. I place my hands gently on hers, feeling her cold hands begin to warm under mine. My Mom used to say that having cold hands is a sign of a warm heart, I whisper this to her softly, gently, trying to ease any tension. I should have added some Barry White to it. Do you miss her? Everyday; but, is something wrong? Are you not feeling O.K? I ask, with true sincerity, and with intention to cut to the point. She ignored my question but at the same time answers it, saying, Why has nothing ever amounted from us, Alec? She used my name. Someone once told me that some civilizations used names when they intended to exert strength over them, to let them know they intended to bend them to their will. Mind games. All I can do is stand here quietly, thinking, trying to call up the most rational and true answer to that yearning question that has always sat in the dark, burning brightly to be answered. My mind right now is like trying to start a lawnmower that hasn't been primed yet. No matter how hard I'm pulling on this rope to start it, it just spins for a second and fails. If you've ever had to deal with this you know the feeling I'm talking about. I look down, my eyes sullen, slightly shameful because of reasons I cant understand, and stare at her hands in mine. This feels natural. Holding her, her closeness, it all feels right. If something like this feels right, its right. Am I over simplifying this? I doubt it. I tend to always make things unnecessarily complicated. Her left hand pulls away for a moment and squeezes back in, producing a picture. I take it slowly and flip it around to its printed face.

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It's a picture of her and I at The Alcove. A bar we frequented as freshly minted 21 year-olds. We probably haven't been there in 4 years or more. In the picture I'm leaning against a poster covered wall, Mary leaning against me, kissing me on the cheek quaintly. I had a goofy look on my face, staring right into the lens. Staring right back at me, now, saying Alright dude, time to make up your mind! She must have found it by my computer monitor. I was looking at it last night, wondering pretty much the same thing she is now. This is what my subconscious was trying to tell me she had found. With purpose, I look up from the picture and speak into the mirror. Lets not worry about the past. Thats past. Let's worry about the future. The present. Let's amount to something now. Did I just say that? My stomach ties itself into knots. Her squeeze on me tightened. I hadnt realized it, but her hands were warmer now. Hey, I said it felt right. And right is right. So, is it right? Oh man. Her hands. Warm is good. Thats a good sign. Alec, you have no idea how happy youve just made me. Ive been wanting to hear that, she pauses, or something like that, another pause, for years now. Really? She never seemed like she wanted more than what was at hand. Is anything ever what it seems? Women. They can never say what theyre really feeling. Just slightly distorted versions, not meant to do what they do: confuse the shit out of guys, but meant to protect them in an insecure situation. Its like some weird interpretive dance. And the audience is a bunch of A.D.D. delinquents, sprinkled with a few people who know whats going on. And as I just found out, Im one of those who do not know

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what is going on. I rotate in her arms, feeling their grasp weaken, and our eyes meet as hers fill with dewy tears. I cant recall her ever crying like this. What does this tell me? That I really dont know her as much as I thought? Because if I did, then I must have seen her cry at least once or twice, right? Or maybe by some cosmic force I've just happened to not be around when she did? Now I sound like that patchouli oiled hippie. I think this is what panic feels like. Then this slips through as if a wiggling gold fish were in my mouth, and I just had to spit it out, I thought we werent mush people? I know how it sounds. It sounds nervous, it sounds pathetic. It sounds bad. This is probably the best thing weve done in our lives, as long as weve known each other, and I just said that. She must think Im an absolute jackass. And guys. Thats all we can do. Say stupid things at the wrong time. She starts laughing immediately and I can feel her letting go. She doesn't take it seriously, does she? I don't want her to go. Really now, the image of her in my bed naked... I really dont want her to go; for some reason I do the same, push away, too astonished at what I had said to do anything at all. I feel like a jackass. Words that dont exist in me try to come out but fail, resulting in a slack jaw and wide eyes. Before I knew it, she was composing herself, and then out in the kitchen starting coffee. I am a jackass. Maybe she isn't thinking of it as I do? I dont know. Its funny how things work out sometimes. I replay Mary standing there in front of me, walking backwards slowly, half crying, half laughing.

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One thing is for sure, if she doesn't think of it as I do, she knows me better than I know her, and I just dont see how that can be possible. Or maybe it's like the spider theory: it's more afraid of you than you are of it. Which always sounds impossibly convoluted but is most likely true. No one ever stops to say 'hey, maybe the spider is actually blissfully unaware of you, the shadowy giant spider-killing monster over there.' So maybe she's as panicky as I am? I take one long stretch of a step over to the door and close it morosely. I suddenly need to be in private. Searching the room for something to occupy my mind with, I sit in my chair and turn on the computer. Putting my head down on the desk to think, I can feel and hear the processor and fans and gizmos that make this work. I have thirty minutes. Everything has its time and place in a computer. Everything knows what to do and how to do it. And when. And efficiently. Theres a certain freedom in our own uncertainty. I dont know about you, but I find it more comforting than not. After I hear the last whir, I sit up and type my user name and password in. I watch everything load and a few moments later, I have checked everything possible to check. Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing to bide my time with. Maybe this is a sign to get off my punk ass and talk to Mary. My teeth grit together. I do that when I get nervous. Am I going to be a person who stops to see signs like this? Or am going to be a person who takes everything for granted, thinking everything is luck, or coincidence? That everything is going to figure itself out? Is there a happy-medium between the two? What happens to the dude who see's the signs but ignores them? Something awful in most situations. I look up from my computer and my eyes fall directly upon a

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picture of someone I do not want to see right now. I stand up to get a closer look. Damn it, I say out loud to the face smiling back at me. Ill fill you in later. Snatching the picture up without looking at it again, I pull open my black filing cabinet that I've owned for years, which incidentally has been packed more times than I care to acknowledge, and toss it in with all the other painful memories in there. Yes, I keep painful memories around. Why? Because sometimes, its the only thing I have, I suppose. Maybe there is a more philosophical answer to that question. Ive been hard pressed to be all that philosophical lately. Although I resent the idea that I have developed some trivial masochistic way of reminding myself of the past, that I don't want to remember one hundred percent, I can see the logic in it. Maybe Mary saw this picture too? 10 minutes have passed. I better hurry up. While showering, all I can think of is how wonderful it is to have an adjoining bathroom. Not for the general convenience, ha, no, not that, but because I really dont want to go out there just yet. Lately, I've become increasingly aware of the fact that sometimes I focus on a negative aspect of the day and never let it go, all day. To my horrid realization, I've rushed through my shower, and the water was too cold. I hate cold showers. And what I hate more than cold showers is rushing. In the delicate state my mind is in, this would normally ruin my day. Today, though, despite my less-than-average showing during the exposition of my emotional handicaps, I have a sense of renewed life. I pull on a pair of jeans, pick out the whitest socks I can find, shove my feet into a pair of black shoes, and don the black t-shirt

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from earlier. Mary seemed casual. So whatever we had to do today, she sure as hell wasn't going to pick me up just to drive home and change. When I stood, I was almost face to face with my reflection in that damned mirror. In a Hitchcock rendition of reality, I see me, and then myself. I see a tall, well built man. Blue eyes, short cropped coal black hair. Wide defined shoulders make me look strong and possibly fierce if need be. My hands look more worn in than ever but my usual lopsided grin has a youthfulness to it that promises the world. And then I see a confused, hurt, angry boy that lives only to be alive and to try to enjoy what's left of lifes wealth. As I snap back from thought, once more, I turn to leave. This brings me face to face with my door and I realize what may happen if I open it. And I will open it. Because locking myself in here and ignoring the situation is not what an adult does. He may want to really bad. But he doesn't. I essentially have only two options. Fifty, fifty. Option 1; face the reality I have created for myself and let natures perceived end and guidance lead me as its fool into unknown situations with only myself and my mistakes as reference. Life as we know it. Option 2; dont take that life giving breathe that is facing up to ones self-committal consequences and fall back into my fluffy, warm, and comfortable niche that is my bed. I love my bed. Life as we would like it. Option 1 sounds like more fun to me but Option 2 is more appealing. I dont think Ive ever made a distinct contrast between those two adjectives. They always seemed to go hand-in-hand. Until now. My hand presses against the knob, my fingers wrap around it, the cold steel cutting into the grip of my hand.

~ LOST AND FOUND~

I turn it quickly. Quicker than I normally make decisions. Like pealing a band-aid off. I find myself in the hallway that joins my room to the public humble-abode my Mom had created through her own cultural demise and repressed fashion sense. I stand there and listen to Mary hum a song. I can hear the noises of her presence emitting from the kitchen. Some things clank, some things sound pushed about. She brings with her a sense of joy. But most important, a sense of life. A sense of life that makes the distance between my life, and it's end, broad. Stretching out my life span. It feels good to have life present. With that thought in mind, and a smile on my face, I journey to the kitchen that within contains my new found sustenance; the beautiful Mary. I walk in and notice the room filling with natural light; Mary is pulling the blinds up. Fresh air billows in from the window over the sink, refreshing the stale air in my unused kitchen. Mary turns to face me momentarily, but as I stand there in the doorway, she shifts to her left and grabs a large mug and pushes it into my hands. Its steaming warmth feels good in my palms. I walk over to the counter and lean against it with my hand extended to the side. With a cautious sip of the coffee, my taste buds revel in an unusually sublime satisfaction. I cant make coffee like this in that out of date pile of plastic. How does she do it? I didnt even know that thing worked, let alone worked well, I admitted. Try plugging it in next time. She smirks and winks.

~ LOST AND FOUND~

Wise ass, I retort, with a partial mouthful of coffee in my maw. Should I say Im sorry? I should. Should I say anything? Maybe not. Mary moved to the table and began reading the newspaper with her feet up. I sip my coffee. Watching her through my eyebrows. I watch her toes wiggle, the nails painted a soft pink. Are you ready? she asks, interrupting what was most likely going to be another one of my perverted man thoughts, all the while scanning the headlines. Her toes are cute. I even like her toes. Come on, that means this is right? Right? I know I have to have an answer. As long as you put the top down. Double entendre? Or just overt innuendo? She has a convertible. It already is, she says with one of those smiles. Well then, isnt this just a beautiful day?