how to stand up straight

when she moved home, she decided to show up someone new. the strong and silent type, with glassy eyes and quick cool glances that no one could ever read. does she hate me? does she love me? does she want me? does she even see me?

that's who she became, because, she realized, softness hadn't gotten her anywhere. so with short dresses, messy hair and nose up, she tried to forget herself. and she was great at it. she touched boys the way they wanted, and the girls, too. she returned their calls but always vaguely, dismissively. she only listened to loud music through headphones and sung along with misinterpreted lyrics. she went everywhere with a think novel - parties and buses - and she loved their stories but she also loved who they made her; she loved the paper shield.

she slept with one boy who was in town for the weekend. the details are fuzzy and irrelevant, but he chewed his cuticles and let his hair fall over his eyes, so she took him in her arms and wet lips and even let him fall asleep holding her hand. but soon he left, and she let go, she didn't let it become love.

a month and a half later she held in her hand a pregnancy test that was positive. she thought about keeping the baby, because it was growing inside of her, because the potential of potential is strong and we are all dying to live vicariously through someone. she wondered about the baby's last name; she thought about giving it her own. but instead she took a pill, rented a hotel room, and bled for 24 hours. this is just something that happens, she told herself, this is just something.

and she cried and it sounded like howling, water after a dry spell. because sadness is always there somewhere, sadness builds up and sadness seeps in.

and next door, a married man and his Lover Next Door were in missionary position when the howling crept through the thin motel wall. the man, short and balding, primitive and panting, had his one-track mind temporarily derailed, his thoughts slipping from what his body was doing to i hope that sound doesn't last all night, i need 8 hours of sleep. the tiny hairs on The Lover Next Door's back stood up straight; she knew that sound, she had made it before.

in the morning The Lover Next Door woke up just past dawn to the hotel door clicking shut, the sound of her sin leaving for work. naked under polyester blankets, The Lover Next Door arched her head back to stare up at the wall behind her bed frame, thinking of the girl on the other side, how you could feel the thickness of her pain in her cries. and she could still hear it now, quieter, howling replaced with whimpering.

and on the other side of the building, The Caretaker was in his pajamas brewing coffee for a half-assed complimentary breakfast. he cringed remembering the sounds of last night. he had come to realize, grudgingly but fully, that this motel off the highway was a place people only came to for parts of them to die - morality, love, sanity, and other fleeting things. and sometimes the shame and longing that filled these rooms was hard to bear. but he knew this was what it meant to be human.

The Caretaker was an old and worn-down man who clutched his empathy close. he pulled out his best tray, silver and antiquated, and filled it with a red mug of coffee, tangerines, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a tall vase of flowers borrowed from the front desk. and at the same time, in the mess of plants in the cracks between the parking lot asphalt and the sidewalk concrete, The Lover Next Door was collecting blades of grass, weeds and dandelions, tying them together with the red ribbon from her hair. each left their visual condolences outside of the girls motel room - apologies.

it was just about noon when she finally opened her door to leave. it had been many hours with the blinds shut tight, and the sunlight burned her eyes. squinting, she kicked the tray she hadn't noticed at her feet, the vase shattering as it fell, the sound of breaking glass waking her up in a new way. so she sat with her feet dangling through the metal railings of the second story, sipping coffee slowly and watching the sugar cubes disintegrate. she piled the broken glass on to the tray, carefully like broken bones, and, putting the two bouquets together, hung them upside down around her neck with the red ribbon.

with spotted blood stains and puffy eyes, greasy hair and a disheveled look, she didn't even try to pull herself together.

she stood as tall as she could and walked all the way home, across town, taking all the busiest roads, letting her tears fall free, looking us all in the eye as she passed.