Saturday, November 18, 2006

Coming Up Empty... the blog department, of late. Is there such a thing as "blog block?" The good news is that I'm writing elsewhere. And while "elsewhere," I found this writing exercise I did with my online group. I have no memory of writing it, but it cracked me up. Which isn't saying much, since I usually have no problem at all amusing myself. And so, since I have nothing else to blog, I will share it with you. The writing prompt was, "The last time I saw...":

The last time I saw Virginia, she was kissing my boyfriend and running her long, lovely fingers through his thinning hair. The last time I saw my boyfriend was right after that. He was on his knees crying and clutching me around the waist and gasping for air. "Don't you believe in second chances?" he said. And I said, "Not really."

Virginia and my boyfriend are married now, and I am alone. Lately I have begun to think of Virginia and my boyfriend as characters in a film I saw long ago. Because I feel that this is progress, I share the good news with my friend. "I think I'm over it," I say. It might be my imagination, but she seems angry, this friend.

"Over it?" she says. Her eyes widen until they are preternaturally large like a cartoon character's eyes. "You just called him your boyfriend. AGAIN. You are so NOT over it. You are so right smack in the middle of it."

Does this sound angry to you?


Another friend pats my head. "You're like a wounded child."

I nod because I don't want to appear rude, but her assessment is not accurate. I'm not a child. Would a child want to spend the evening parked in front of Virginia and Tino's apartment scrunched down in the driver's seat? I don’t think so. I think a child would rather sit in front of the television eating popcorn that she has lovingly bathed in pure, salted butter.

"How long did you stay there?" my friend asks.

"Just a few hours."

"Did you see them?"

"I saw shadows," I say. "I heard music."


My mother is not helpful. "I dated a boy in college," she says, "and I ended up having to break things off with him. It was very difficult. He called me all the time afterwards to tell me how beautiful he thought I was."

I tell my mother that I haven’t heard from Tino since the day he asked me about second chances. She says, “Well, honey, do you think maybe you should have given him one?”

“One what?”

“One second chance.”

Do you see how that is not helpful?


As often happens, I have nothing to do. So I run an internet search and find a Web address that will, if I wish, take me directly to Virginia and Tino's "Online Wedding Album."

Do I wish to do this?

“Why the hell not?” says my angry friend. “Look at the pictures and get it out of your system.”

I tell her I will, but I won’t.

“Why not?” says my gentle, head-patting friend. “It might help.”

I tell her I will, but I won’t.

Because I don't want to see Virginia resplendent in a white gown, a satin-tipped veil floating about her shoulders. And I don't want to see Tino in a tuxedo getting married to someone else. I'd rather remember him on his knees in front of me, begging.

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