Denton, Texas - May 2012
© e.gosney 2014

"We didn't know it was the beginning."

"No, no we did not."

"Then how did we know it was something worthwhile?"

"I did."

"You did?"

"No. I just like to think I did. Sometimes it's nice to pretend."

"Are you pretending now?"

"About what?"

"About this being the end."

"No. This is real life. This is the end."


She had been gazing at the side of his face as he stared stubbornly forward. She turned away now, head and body, as he confirmed in words what she had sensed for weeks. Months actually. This was it. The end. And he didn't seem to care all that much.

"Well if he doesn't care," she thought to herself, "neither will I. I never really liked him anyway. Nope. Not even a little bit." Her face twisted slightly in subtle disgust as she looked up again, studying his stone profile.

"I did love you." Jerked from her resolution of disdain, his unexpected words aroused a hidden hope, and then stung her with past tense. His stare continuing to penetrate the infinite space in front of him.

"And I you." Her plum cheeks rose up beneath pillars of a smile as her eyes left the present to explore long-gone days. Scrolling, flipping, page after page of memories, until the past caught up and the pillars were yanked out from under the plum cheeks. Her face crashed into the darkness of the present.

"We didn't know it was the beginning," she began, "perhaps we don't know if this is the end."

"Perhaps," he replied. "But I doubt it."

Slowly he stood, studying his knees, the chair arm, then the door handle.

Her head twisted over her shoulder as she watched him leave.

"Sometimes it's nice to pretend."


© 2014


Me and Cath. Provo, Utah. August 2012
© e.gosney 2014

Scooping up a piece of cake, the air-pocketed texture rubbed across her anticipating tongue, shooting rich scents of memories through the nasal cavaties.

"This tastes like first grade," she said casually, leaning forward to take another bite. "Yep. First grade."

The chocolate bits clung to the crevaces of her molars, nostrils flaring in unsure pleasure as the scenes scrolled behind her eyes. Playgrounds and old desks, lunchrooms and pencil erasers.



Deer Creek Resevoir, Provo Canyon, Utah. April 2012
© e.gosney 2014

At home I arrive, crossing the threshold from the chaos of foreign affairs to the refuge of arm chairs and sweatshirts. I peel off layers of sticky clothing that cling to my flushed skin. Away with the shoes, the socks. Away with the painted face and bobby-pinned hair. Yanking on a corded anchor, I raise the blinds and sneak a glance at the outer world. Forcing the aluminum window upward, a breeze sweeps through the dimly-lit apartment, dancing off books and somersaulting over the coffee table, landing amongst the couch cushions and sighing out a hello.

It is night, the time of creation. Eyelids sag in pitiful exhaustion, little men tugging on sleepy strings to bring the lids to a close. Unable to move toward one decision or another, I stand as a statue in a forgotten garden. The moss crawls and creeps, latching onto my toes and ankle bones. It is so simple, to fall. But I cannot decide, for there is so much yet to be done.

Another push of wind catches my tangled hair, with moonbeams and fairy wings coming to join the fun. I exist here. There is not this way or that way, it is only present. There is no mistake, no progression. There is only a moment suspended in my stout figure, in my fogged-over and whip-lashed mind. "Give me this moment," I plead to the moon. But words have made all things flee.

I dare myself to move. Breaking the growth that has accumulated around my grounded feet, I stomp one step to my left. The shell cracks and crumbles, exposing me once more to the timeline I want so much to hinder. I step lightly twice more, snatching hanging clothes between tender-skinned fingers. I touch the wall, feeling its pulse connect with mine. It isn't the structure that is mine, but the idea. The freedom. The life I know and the life I have, ever so slowly, begun to adore. My palm presses against the white-washed wall and I lean in for goodnight kiss. I stop short, realizing the spell has brought me too far into the absurd. I pull away and shatter back through to reality.

Still, I can't help but whisper into the paint. "You are mine. I am yours, life. If only for a little while longer."

Safe from the unknown. Making love to an idea. Such is my life at six and 20.



Woodland Hills, Utah
© e.gosney 2014

I expect it to be a relief of sorts. Not the kind of endings, that something has finally ceased to bear down on my all-too-weak and all-too-impatient shoulders, but rather an exhale and a renewed breath. A completion of one part and the hope and excitement for the next.

It isn't ornate or involved. It is but one hand finding another and grasping it for the first time. Then the body fills up with something new, as the exhale makes room for ... that. That smile I can feel on my cheeks and lips but can't yet form. Not yet. That fulfillment I can imagine but have not encountered. Not yet.

He will take my hand and I his and I will dare not look, in fear it is an illusion. But then I will glance down, the unreachable smile will take hold of me, body and soul, and I will dare raise my gaze to meet his. Whoever he is. Blessed man who lines my imagination, whose unknown being fills the capsules of fairytale men I read about, of actors I see. And to think, those are all fake, stuck to the pages and the screens that gave them life. But the man I will someday meet is real. He exists. I like to think he exists for me and I for him, and though we exist perfectly well apart, when we meet, when out hands find one another's at last, we will begin to understand we never wholly existed at all before that moment. And we will never be the same again, nor would we want to be.

Indeed, I expect it to be sigh, a relief, a gasp of air as I attempt to breathe in every ounce of that moment when I finally find the one I dream of, the one I seek. And the moment he finds me.