Sweet Nile

My little Nile. I hear you breathing and see you smiling behind closed eyes. What are you dreaming? I wonder. Your frail little body, vulnerable and open to the world the way only a newborn is, twitches. Your innocence fills me with awe and tenderness. Your trust breaks my heart. I want to protect you from all the evils of the world, but know it's impossible. In my arms, right now, as I bounce and watch you, you're in your safest place and you know it. You sleep a light slumber. One moment in dreamland; another awake. You rewardp me with toothless smiles and my heart hurts. The love I have for you is overwhelming and crippling. You came into this world to make it a better place, starting with me. I'm becoming a better person because of you, my little one. You're teaching me patience when, at three in the morning, you want to play instead of sleep. Or when you cry for no known reason. I, like a zombie, hold you and smile as you coo and flash gummy grin after gummy grin. Nile. You who's named after the fiercest of rivers. Nile. You're my sweetest lullaby. You're my cave of wonders. You're my gift from God. I don't think you'll ever quite know how much I love you. At least not until you become a mother yourself. Until then, I'll continue to watch you and hold you and love you. Always. Forever.

The Eternal Neutrality of the Concave Chest

He literally took my heart. Ripped it out, actually -- bloody and still pumping. I could feel an echo, a memory, of where it used to be. I asked him to take it. I watched him, encouraged him even, as he held the glimmering blade and shoved it into my waiting chest. The pain was exquisite torture, but less intense than heart-break. His stoic nature fascinated me, it seduced me into masochism; he didn't reveal emotions -- no pity, no fear, no remorse, no sadness. It simply was. I didn't exist to him. I was a shell, a vessel, a body; I was emptiness. I wondered what he would do now that he held the crimson, palpitating muscle in his hands. But he didn't want it; he just tossed it. This time though, it didn't hurt. His rejections no longer mattered because I no longer felt. Never again would I experience sorrow or anger, pleasure or joy, love or hate. Heartless, I was immune to emotions. I questioned to what extent -- would I still be filled with peace when I closed my eyes under the warm sun? Would a star-dotted sky still take my breath away? Would the blue and white salty waters of the world remain a source of solace and amazement? How would my mind react now that it no longer had to battle my heart? Was I done dreaming?

I watched him walk away, his dark silhouette growing smaller and smaller into oblivion. As his figure faded into the horizon, so did every memory I had of him. Now that my heart and my mind were no longer connected, I was free of emotional ties. My memory stored images, stories I associated with him, but they no longer held an impact, it was almost like they never happened. The only pain I could feel was in my chest, in the hollow space between my breasts. The blood had stopped and the skin was rapidly regenerating, so much so that I only had a light, star-shaped scar where the knife had penetrated. I waited a few moments before walking towards my new life.

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We met my last year of college. I was young, free-spirited, and full of ideals -- I romanticized revolutions of the past and of far-away lands, I believed we would all one day be equal and I had no doubt that happy endings existed. Up until then, my life had been full of ups and downs, spirals and twists, but never once had my faith in liberty, justice and love wavered. I ran free.

I never expected to meet him; it was just one of those things that unexpectedly falls into your lap and it seems so right, that we associate it with fate. My first impression of him was that he was fat, and that he donned a shuffle when he walked. That view faded soon enough -- his fat transformed into big, powerful and masculine; His shuffle became a dominating stride, confident and war-like. I was hooked. I was never naive, but I possessed a strange innocence that was inherently genuine. With him, I relaxed and allowed my heart to feel. And it felt. For the first time, I met a man I wanted in my life and that I could see a future with. My mind was a bit more stubborn. A true cynic, my mind battled my heart. I wish my mind was the victor. But my heart was strong and relentless and no matter how hard my mind fought, whenever I saw his face and his dimpled smile, my heart triumphed.

To this day, I don't know what I saw in him. He was average looking, rough around the edges and could not put a sentence together without first peppering it with profanity. He lacked tact and always said the wrong thing. More importantly, with him, I never knew where I stood. Some days I was sure he cared, but he just lacked the sensitivity to express it. Other days, most days, I wondered why he wasted his time and mine when his heart wasn't in it. It wasn't anything he said, but everything he didn't say. It wasn't anything he did, but everything he didn't do. He was the secret garden I wanted to discover, the ocean of thoughts whose depth I wanted to explore. He was so close, but always so far.

We continued that way for months. The deeper in love that I fell, the more I had to lose. Everything was always his terms, his conditions. I found myself fading away. Instead of the outspoken, opinionated rebel, I was now nice and sweet. Women should be seen, not heard. I worked hard at being a "girl" - upbeat, pretty, and sensitive. But it wasn't me. As such, I slowly evaporated. I learned to smile and nod, to keep opinions to myself, to aim to please. My fire dimmed. My spirit died. Without realizing it, I gave him a marionette me and he didn't want it. I, on the other hand, wanted all of him. I wanted his confidence, his smile, his entitlement and privilege. I wanted the man he was the during the day and the child he was in his sleep -- sweet, unguarded and innocent. That's when I loved him most, while he slept. There was nothing I longed for more than sleeping by his side -- our limbs radiating heat, his breath lullabying me into the most delicious slumber. Months later, after I surrendered by body to him, I reminisced to those nights when I watched him sleep and felt true intimacy, the intimacy the union of our bodies never experienced.

In retrospect, I guess I always knew how it would end; my intuition prophesized it. I knew my heart would break, I just didn't expect the intolerable pain, the flooding tears, the swollen eyes, the emptiness... I knew he could never love me. He wanted more; he needed more. Or maybe, he wanted less; he needed less. We were different. We didn't share ideals. We didn't share backgrounds, statuses, minds. I was the intellectual to his jock. I was the irrationality to his common sense. I was the pauper to his prince. My creativity outshone his dullness, intimidated his blandness. His neutrality confiscated my confidence, brought out my insecurities, made me run and hide. Occasionally I would reemerge, take a swing at him, a jab, a round-house kick -- anything that would evoke an emotion. But nothing ever did. He would just look at me, silently. He would look at me, but he would never see me.

Finally, the frustration of loving a creature like him caught up to me. Away from him I was miserable, always questioning myself -- was I not smart enough? Pretty enough? Thin enough? Fat enough? Why wasn't I enough? I couldn't do it anymore; I needed to break free.

It was clean break. He was unfazed as always. "It's not that you're a bitch or anything," he said. "I'm just at that age, you know? I should be looking to settle down and shit and I don't feel we are at the same mental level. I can't date just to date."

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The last time I saw him was a cold, spring evening. For reasons I'll never understand, he asked me out again. "To celebrate our birthdays," he said. That night was perfect. We talked, danced, kissed. That night, everything seemed more alive: the stars shone brighter, the air was crisper, my heart beat stronger. Everything was magic. For just a few hours, I surrendered to the fantasy. But this wasn't my fairy tale. This didn't have a happily ever after. Heartbroken and half-naked, I fought the tears that were welling up in my eyes and watched him turn his back and walk out the door one last time.

*************************************************************************************

Even after we stopped seeing each other, he haunted my every waking moment. He wasn't present anymore and it hurt. My mind, cynical and independent, celebrated my freedom, but heart couldn't stand it -- it was destroyed.

Night after night, I dreamt of him. In my dreams, he never acknowledged me. I searched for him, hoped to gain clarity, find answers. I needed something to kill my love and steal my hope. But nothing changed. Instead, I surrendered to desperation and embraced the pain, as intricate as butterfly threaded lace and as poisonous as a black widow's kiss.

After a while the pain replaced him and I became dependent on it. Like a heroin addict, I injected suffering into my bloodstream and needed it to function. As long as I hurt, my love lived. I wondered if I had been brainwashed by soap operas. I remembered writing my thesis paper on the virgin/whore dichotomy and examining the two distinct roles as they are portrayed in short stories and soap operas. In one of the books I used, Cleófilas yearned for the passion of soap operas "because to suffer for love is good. The pain all sweet somehow. In the end."

Somewhere between writing and loving, I believed it. My love justified my suffering. My suffering justified my love. I moved through the world in penance, preaching the gospel of a disillusioned heart and disappearing dreams. The more I hurt, the more I loved, the more worthy I became.

One day, I woke up and looked at my reflection; it terrified me. I didn't recognize myself. I had become what I thought he saw: a shell, just a body void of the purest essences that had once been me -- vivacity, courage, pride, passion. That was the day I knew he had to cut my heart out.

Father's Day

The doors slide open and they walk in - a mother and her two little girls. The little ones, still pre-school age, are messy – frizzy blond curls, wrinkled dresses, sticky hands and smiles. All three sit in seats perpendicular to mine. They laugh, play and enjoy each other. At the next stop, the door connecting the linked cars opens and the girls squeal in excitement. It is Daddy. Their young faces reveal the joy and love that's only apparent when one is still innocent and trusting, before life has hardened one up and taught to conceal what one truly feels. He comes closer. "Daddy! Daddy!” they cry in unison. He sits next to me, the too familiar stench of alcohol rushes into my nostrils. They compete with each other for his attention. "Look at my earrings, Daddy!" "I have this much money left, look Daddy! I have 6 left!" Daddy smiles, an absent and slightly menacing look plastered on his face. "What's that on your ears?" His tone mean and aggressive, almost threatening. The older girl's smile drops, but she doesn’t untape her dangling paper earrings. His attention turns to the younger one, his eyes scrutinize her sticky fingers, her outstretched palms holding copper-colored coins. He looks at the mother, stating, "you spent it all at Starbucks." She laughs and says, "No." He keeps insisting. The older girl withdraws and moves closer to her mother. The little one looks at him adoringly; he is still her hero. His eyes are locked on the mother's, who smiles uncomfortably. The younger girl, sensing the sudden tension, automatically draws her thumb into her mouth for comfort. Daddy turns to her and slaps her hand out of her mouth - "We don't suck thumbs!" She whimpers, lightly, but doesn’t cry. At that moment, BART stops -- 24th Street, my station. I wonder how much time the girls have left before they realize their father, like mine, is nothing. I wonder when they will awaken from their fantasy.

Once upon a time, I was that little girl. In my eyes and in my heart, my dad could do no wrong – he was my everything. He was the first person I trusted completely, blindly, without a doubt. I thought he would always be there. Back then I could not imagine life without him. Now, I cannot imagine life with him. I don’t remember what the breaking point was. I don’t remember when I lost all faith in him. I don’t know if it was a series of events, or one particular incident. In retrospect, I think I chose to hide the truth from myself. I guess I did not want to face reality; I didn’t want to admit that my father was a coward, a liar, a selfish being. I knew why we had left our family home without him; I knew what he did to my mom; I knew why Mari and I had to walk to school past the train tracks at 6:30 am Monday through Friday; I knew why my mom had to work; I knew why my uncles and my grandfather would drop food off for us; I knew why he scared me at night. But in the day, in the sunshine, he was my Daddy.

I looked forward to the afternoons I would spend with him. Mari wouldn’t come. A lot of the times it was just Gugu and me. Other times it was just me. He would take us to a bar and we’d have banana splits; he’d just get hammered. I loved ice cream. I loved him. I didn’t even mind the music. It must have been 1989 or maybe 1990. “Ven Devorame Otra Vez” was at its peak. Lalo Rodriguez’ voice boomed throughout every jukebox in Masaya “…devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra ve / Ven castigame con tus deseos mas / Que el vigor lo guarde para ti / Ay ven devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra vez / Que la boca me sabe a tu cuerpo / Desesperan mis ganas por ti…” It’s my punishment song. I listen to it when I feel like crap and crap still isn’t enough. I put it on repeat and remember. I remember what he lost because he wasn’t a man. More importantly, I remember what I lost, what I allowed him to take from me – hope, faith, and innocence.

It’s a weird dichotomy, my feelings towards him. Part of me remains that little girl and loves him. Another part hates him. I want to protect him and slash his heart out. That’s why I hate Father’s Day. It’s selfish of me, but I don’t need another reminder of what I don’t have.

Back-track to Father’s Day 1991, Nuestra Senora del Pilar, third grade: My class was going to perform Roberto Carlos’ “Amigo” for our Father’s Day assembly. We rehearsed every day for weeks, Sor Carmen accompanying our childish voices with her guitar. I was ready to sing, I knew every word – I still do. But the day of the concert, I didn’t show up. It was a Saturday and I stayed home. I don’t know what happened, if my mom just couldn’t bring me to school or if I made the decision not to go. It was probably my decision; I probably wanted to punish him for not visiting me that week. I do remember feeling guilty, heartbroken, wondering if he showed up and I wasn’t there. I cried myself to sleep that night. Even now this song fills me with nostalgia and melancholy; it still makes me feel remorseful.

Fast-forward to March 2010: My friend and her dad share a birthday and often times celebrate it together. I guess it was a big one because they surprised her dad with a ten-piece mariachi band. She and her father waltzed around the room “…tu eres mi amigo del alma en toda jornada / Sonrisa y abrazo festivo a cada llegada / Me dices verdades tan grandes con frases abiertas / Tu eres realmente el mas cierto de horas inciertas…” It was “Amigo”, a haunting memory from my childhood. I stood there, wanting to disappear so no one would notice the tears that were starting to well up in my eyes. I was eight again.

I want to let go of the memories; I want to forget the past. I don’t want to hate my dad, but it’s also too late to build a relationship with him. Frankly, I don’t want one. There’s just so much I don’t understand. I don’t understand how the arms that hugged me could bruise, how the lips that kissed my cheeks could verbally assault, and how the dad that loved me, who was supposed to take care of me, could abandon me. I hope that the day I have a family of my own, my children have a good dad.

The BART doors close behind me. For their sake, I hope I’m wrong about those little girls and their dad. I hope I’m jumping into conclusions, assuming, projecting. I hope theirs is a good dad, who loves them, who’s there for them, who won’t abandon them.

The Road to Machu Picchu

It's still dark when we board the bus. My stomach growls with hunger and anticipation. I unwrap my cheese sandwich and eat it. I'm still hungry and so I eat my second cheese sandwich and my cookies, but save my banana for later. The trip begins. The sparkling Cusco lights slowly fade as dawn creeps in. The sun, rising in the east, softens the city view, varnishing and sculpting doorways, alley ways and snow-covered mountaintops. Except for the bus driver and me, everyone else sleeps. I sit in the front where I have a clear view of the slowly awaking world. I shuffle through my iPod in search of the perfect soundtrack; not just anything will do. It needs to be mellow, but inspiring. It needs to be thought-provoking, but open to interpretation. I look out the window as we make our way through the hills, each rolling of the wheels taking us higher and further away from Cosco, the center, and bringing us closer to the reason we are all on that bus -- Machu Picchu.

I close my eyes and allow the sounds of gipsy guitars to transport my thoughts. I try to keep my mind blank; it's hard. Images of ruins, mountains, temples, jaguars, lighting and thunder, beautiful and ancient brown people worshiping pagan Gods and sacrificing virgins run through my head. It doesn't matter if I keep my eyes open or closed, the visions never fade.

I'm aware of our surroundings once more. We have left Picasso's Starry Night. The golden orbs disappear, melting into a watercolor world of marigold yellows, flushed flamingo pinks, lapis lazuli blue. The bus stops and we exit. It's breakfast time. The town is picturesque and quaint; it doesn't seem real. Buildings appear to be molded from the rocks they rest on. People bustle around, making their way to work and school. With their brightly colored garbs, they resemble exotic birds of paradise. The women's long and ebony braids swish down their backs; I want to pull one. It's been way too long since I have felt the weight of a braid against my back and with my short, black hair barely ponytail length, it'll be a few more years before I do.

We walk toward the restaurant and makes me think of the house in "Blue Lagoon". Let the bonding begin! After all, we are going to be together for the next 4 days -- hiking, complaining, laughing, sweating, eating, sleeping and not showering together. Oh boy...

Another bus ride. But then, we are there! We unload and start getting ready for the next 4 days. I'm excited and a bit unsure about what to expect. The hike is only 27 miles, all of which are covered over FOUR days. Twenty-seven miles. That's a marathon. People run marathons in a handful of hours. Maybe it won't be so bad...

Everyone puts their backpacks on. Mine feels heavy. I contemplate eating my banana, but it's mushy and let's face it, it won't make my backpack any lighter. It doesn't matter though, I'm too excited to worry about lugging the extra weight on my back. I pick up my walking sticks and trip over them. But I just smile, regain my composure and run after the group. We stop and take our group picture. We are all clean, fresh and smiling. It's obvious it is day 1.

The next 4 days aren't easy, but they are an experience and a test for perseverance. The trek is exhausting. The mountains are stairways to heaven. We climb and climb, one leg after another. It just seems to never end. Each mountain is steeper than the next. My heart pounds hard in my chest. My breathing is heavy. Sweat drips down my face and into my eyes. My shoulders ache from the weight in my backpack. Walking downhill is no better. The ground is slippery and the steepness we climbed, is the same steepness we need to descend. The thought of slipping and breaking my neck crosses my mind several times. I try to not think about it and just focus on climbing and using my walking sticks properly. Being clumsy by nature, and a distracted dreamer, isn't doing me any favors. I've slipped twice. The first time was at the bridge before the hike had even begun -- I almost went over. The second time, I slipped right after replying, "I'm okay," to one of my new friends. Famous last words. Luckily, I am blessed with ninja reflexes and caught my fall with a sexy, white motorcycled-gloved hand. I knew those gloves would one day come in handy.

The weather is fickle and unforgiving. It pours one minute, the next is all sunshine, my skin scalding under the hot, hot sun. The wind combats our bodies, an invisible, violent, and swirly force that hurts. The temperature drops, only to rise again. We peel off layers of clothes, then pile them back on when our flesh goosebumps. We pull our rainwear on, the plastic swishing with every step we take. Swish! Swish!

My legs are covered in welts. I have 42 mosquito bites split, unevenly, between my calves. It seems like my left calf is more appetizing. The itching is overwhelming. I have bug repellant and even with that, the Mosquitos don't stay away. I scratch until I'm close to bleeding. I think of the possibilities of scars and stop. I like wearing short dresses.

There are no bathrooms. We have to squat every time nature calls. At night the temperature drops to zero. All we have is a plastic tent and a sleeping bag to keep is warm. I sleep with my hoodie on. The same hoodie I've been sweating in all day. The floor is hard and makes my back hurt. I don't have a pillow. My tent mate snores. Loudly. I try to sleep with my headphones on, but we don't have electricity and I need to preserve my iPod and iPhone for train and bus ride back. Sacrifices must be made. I lay awake in the dark. I hear the wind blow. I picture the sky. It was majestic before I went to bed, the onyx background lit up by an infinite quantity of sparkling stars. I had tried to take a picture, to capture the mystery of the orbits on film, but I couldn't do it. Instead, I have to rely on memory to keep it alive.

As hard as the hike sometimes feel, I am appreciative of every second. I haven't felt so alive in a year. I can feel every muscle working, every fiber breathing. Nature engulfs me and it's beautiful. I try to take in every tree, every plant, every insect and animal -- snakes, tarantulas, hummingbirds. I'm captivated by the vibrancy and vividness of it all. The colors inspire life. I fall in love with an orchid that's so electrically bright it seems unreal. I want to touch it, but it doesn't seem right to tarnish its essence with my grimy hands. Everywhere I look, there's something that makes me feel so blessed to be alive. The air is thin, but it's crisp and clean and I greedily breathe it in. We are high up and it's misty. The hills, rocks and trees are gently cloaked in magic and mystery. For a second, I wonder if I'm dreaming. I feel as though I've been trekking forever, and not just a few days.

At night, we have "happy hour". The porters set up a tent and kerosene heater and we all sit around the table, eating popcorn, crackers with jam and butter, coca tea and our favorite, Milo. Yummy Milo. It's powdered hot chocolate that we mix with powered milk and deliciously hot water. After happy hour, we feast. The porters, led by the Chef Sebastian, prepare delicious meals three times a day. Dinner always starts with a soup, followed for a 4 course meal and dessert. Yes, dessert. My diet is much better here than it is at home. Can I bring Sebastian back? Too bad I'm feeling sick. By day two, the thought, smell and sight of food makes me sick. I can't eat in fear of vomiting. I don't drink in fear of awakening my hunger. Good thing the hike is only four days long.

The second days if definitely the hardest. The road is treacherous and the steepness of the incline is undeniable. I wonder how I will make it to the top and how I will make it back down. I question my vacation choice. Memo to self: Next time, take the train. But like everything else in life, nothing last forever. We make it to camp, eat and sleep. "Tomorrow," Roger promises, "will be much easier."

He doesn't lie. Day 3 is difficult, but not as brutally intense as the previous day. We end early and explore. He takes us to an Inca site that is not known like Machu Picchu. We walk, hike, play and take pictures. Then we return to camp. Machu Picchu awaits us.

That night, the heavens cry. There are fireworks in the sky. The rain falls hard, beating against our tents. The lighting turns night into day and thunder serenades us, keeping us awake. I want to leave my tent and dance in the rain. But for once, I resist impulse and instead, I lie there, listening. Finally, the storm seduces me into a deep slumber. At 3:30 am, we all rise to begin the end of the trip.

It's dark when we head off. I'm excited, sad, anxious. We hike and hike. The ground is muddy and as I hop and skip in excitement, mud splatters all over, staining my dandelion t-shirt. Kassandra and I race to the fifty hand-and-foot climbing stairs. We can't wait to reach the Sun Gate and gaze upon Machu Picchu at sun rise. It's hard to keep up with her, she's 6"2, almost a foot taller than me. I try though. Our efforts are in vain. Machu Picchu is thickly veiled in clouds and mist. Once the group is all together, we hike some more and finally, there it is, Machu Picchu.

After four long days, we made it. It's breath-taking. Magic and mystery. Solace and support. Reality and other-worldliness. I try to picture people living there; working, learning, fighting, loving, raising a family. It's hard to do. Wide-eyed and impressionable, I silently absorb my surroundings, carbon-copying them into the most graphic memory chip my brain contains.

El Last Shaman de Cosco

Tomorrow is the first day of the Inca Trail. I'm so close to seeing Machu Picchu, something I have wanted to experience since I saw the first photograph. While walking around Cusco, I came across a shaman shop. I went in to buy a good luck charm for a friend back home. Like me, she could really use it. There, I discovered they did coca leaves reading. Now, I'm not what anyone would refer to as a mystic -- I'm a skeptic through and through. However, during difficult times, when I feel lost and in need of answers, I seek in places that I hope will give instant gratification or at least some sort of comfort to my otherwise restless existence.

So, I decided to do a reading today. It was pretty interesting. The shaman was beautiful to me. He wasn't classically handsome, but he had a beauty that came from within. His face was heavily lined and his features, strong Inca ones, possessed a strength and joy that I only dream of having. He seemed at peace with himself.

He placed a basket of leaves on the table and asked me to take 7 and lay them in front of me. He said we would start with a general reading. He took each leaf, held it up and studied it in silence. Then he spoke. The first leaf was for my health. The second for my fortitude. The third for my relationship with human beings. Number six was for knowledge, something I possess he said and I'm always in search for. The seventh was for my harmony -- I'm not very harmonious. He said I won't be until I'm content with myself, my job, those around me and am one with nature; when I wake up in the morning grateful to be alive. I don't remember the ones in between. Much of what he said made sense. I'm not in good place right now. I have great qualities, he said. I'm extremely intelligent, I'm kind, hard working but I'm not happy.

He then asked me if I had any specific questions. I did. They were the same ones I always have. I asked about him. He said to close my eyes and pick a leaf. The leaf was split, like a snake's slithering tongue. He looked at it and said he wasn't convenient for me. I spoke, making him laugh with my outrageous comments. He said I needed someone who was my equal. I needed a man that I admired, one who understood my intelligence and my heart. He said this one didn't. I need someone I could talk and debate with. With him, I may never find happiness.

It's not what I wanted to hear. It made me sad because, even though I know he isn't for me and he doesn't care, he's all I want. I don't know how I will gain the harmony I need, when I still feel empty and broken-hearted. I know my feelings don't matter, that they won't or can change anything when he doesn't see me, or even want me. It's my fault; I search for him in my dreams. And, even in my dreams, our paths don't cross. Even in my dreams, he doesn't want me. I want to stop caring and hurting inside; I just don't know how. I know he doesn't deserve me. But even knowing that doesn't make it go away, nor does it diminish what's in my heart.

Lucky 13

The long anticipated girl's night out. Lucky 13. Or is it Lucky 7? It doesn't matter, it's the 13th therefore, for our purposes, it's Lucky 13. Tonight is going to be magical; you can feel it in your bones. It is your lucky night. The thing about luck though, at least what you learned from watching leprechauns on Charmed, is that it can go either way. Let's hope your luck tonight is good, regardless of tonight also being Friday the 13th and a full moon -- the freaks come out at night.

There's 4 of you tonight; all different and all attractive. Each of you is dressed to impress; each showcasing her own personal style -- brightly colored jeans, silky tops, feathered earrings, short skirts, tall boots, mini dresses, a white bandage. It's no accident you came to The Knockout tonight. All of you plan on being the knockouts for the night. No pun intended.

You walk up to the door and look at your friends, their ids are out. You search in your bag for yours, but your broken finger slows you down. During the search for your card, you drop your mini Swiss army knife. The bouncer picks it up and looks at it, looks at you. He raises an eyebrow. You, in all seriousness, say the first thing that comes to mind, "The first rule of Fight Club: you do not talk about Fight Club." He laughs. Loudly. Your friends don't know what to think. One is used to you and just laughs with an eye-roll. Another looks a little nervous. The third just calls you "estupit" as she stifles a giggle.

You tell him you broke your finger a number of weeks ago and need the knife to cut the tape every time you re-bandage. He looks at you with an interested gleam in his eyes, looks at your friends. He's charmed by their looks, amused by your words. He let's you in, waiving the cover charge.

It's gonna be a good night. An unpredictable night. Your favorite kind.

The excitement is contagious and shared by all 4. there is no other motive other than let loose and have fun.

For one of you tonight is a stress reliever -- working 7 days a week takes a toll and a girl's night out is the perfect outlet. Hubby can stay home.

For another, the entertaining and possibly wild outing is needed to block the pain of a recent break up. Boys watch out!!

You and your other friend, the crazy one, just need to go out. You're both thinking of tonight as your "debut". You both plan on dancing and mingling and possibly flirting. Definitely flirting. This night, you plan on showcasing and embracing and possibly flaunting. Definitely flaunting. Tonight, there's no holding back.

You walk in. You're met by an instant heat wave - the place is packed. You push and are pushed as you all make your way to the bar.The music is loud. Its old school. You're back at your middle school's playground. Except that now you drink. The bartender, middle-aged and tough-looking, approaches you: one redstripe for crazy, one margarita for wife, one cranberry vodka for newly single and for you, vodka soda (less calories and you are wearing a very fitted dress). No cosmos here. The Sex and the City gals are much more sophisticated than this foursome. Cheers!

Drinks in tow, you hit the dance floor. THe music vibrates inside you. Your bodies move to the rhythm, you effortlessly sway to the beat. Your drinks swish with every movement, they bounce with every step. Someone bumps into you and there goes your drink. Oh well... It was too strong anyways. You're wearing heels tonight and drinking always gives you a strong case of spaghetti legs. You put the glass down and dance.

You look around and notice one of your friends is missing. In the corner, you spot her. She's getting her long awaited kiss. He's cute. Totally her type. Tall, dark and handsome. Non-squishy. Her golden eyes flash mischievously and her skin, already damp, glistens under the dim lights. She's having a great night. Go crazy!

The foursome is down to three. At least for the next couple of hours.

You spoke too quickly. The trio is down to two. Newly single is newly entertained. You'll be surprised if she decides to take a breathing break in the near future. Wife and you exchange a look, it's just the two of you for now. At least you still have someone to dance with. It's better that way; you don't like the sometimes sticky fingers these boys have and neither does her husband.

The music is getting louder. The beat is stronger. The bass pounds alongside your heartbeat. You and wife look at each other and laugh -- you're both having the time of your week for sure. This is what being young is all about it. All the worries and stress of the week forgotten for several hours.

In the dark you spot him. From across the room, your eyes meet. Your smile is tentative. It's him. The one who broke your heart. You realize you've stopped dancing. Your legs feel heavy, your heart races. Wife looks at you, a puzzled look on her face. You don't speak. You don't know what to say, what to feel. Part of you wants to run the other way, pretend he isn't there. Another part of you wants to run to him. But instead, you look at wife, smile and keep dancing.

The lights come on. The 4 of you reunite. Newly single and crazy are back, satisfied smiles adorn their faces. The night is over. As you walk out, you take one look back, see him and without regrets, leave for good.

Rolling Dice

Tell me a story.
Give me your dreams.
I want to know how you got here.
I need to know how you became what you are.
What's inside you? I want to see.

Weave your hopes and your pains.
Make a quilt.
It's patched with insecurities and fear;
tightly threaded with obscurity and selfishness.
Let's use it as shelter.
You protect yourself with it.
I want to borrow it.
Like you, I want to use it to distance everyone away.
I don't want anyone to know me either.

I'm not a gambler -- the risk is too great.
The die roll but never stop.
What are the chances of being a high-roller?
Per my history they're slim to none; I will lose it all.
I already have.
Decades ago it happened.
Since then, I've never been able to win again.

The die always roll a blank.
Broken dice. Broken spirit. Broken dreams.
Gambling is a risk. Everything is lost.
Don't gamble unless you can afford to lose.
It's a recession. I can't afford to play.

I don't possess anything of value.
What can I offer?
I have no barter, no high stakes.
I only have what you see.
I can only offer what I am.

The die roll.
I wonder when and where they will stop.