Benioff Imitation

He entered the coffee shop on West 29th completely stoic, and as he pushed through the swinging glass door, the bells jingled. It seemed a cheerful entrance for such a bleak expression.
I notice him after feeling the breeze as the door swung open, chilling me just enough to remind me that it was January, and that the circumstance of our meeting must have been somber. I eagerly flagged him over, waving my winter hat. He conceded without changing his expression. Although Wes was never the type to let on too much about how he was feeling, he seemed especially cold and detached, his face blank from what I judged to be exhaustion.
“Hey,” I said to him. “What's going on? I haven't been able to get a hold of you lately.”
He collapses into the booth, shrugs with his whole body, and glances down at a list of the available lattes and flavored coffees. The chocolate pastries, fresh fruit and breakfast options were nothing but another novelty to scoff at. The waitress came by, her plastic smile seeming plastered on a little bit too intentionally for her to not have the inevitable tip in mind.
“What can I get for you?” she chirped, her little pony-tail bouncing around as she spoke.
“Coffee,” he said with no inflection, never looking up from the menu.
“Do you want a flavor shot? We have peppermint, gingerbread, hazelnut, raspberry...we also have some really yummy seasonal creamers and this new kind of sweetener, if you--”
“Give it to me black,” he cut her off coldly. She walked away, certainly feeling that her battle had been already lost.
“You'll feel better if you just talk about it,” I assured him—my futile attempt at coaxing the clandestine information from his hypothetical death grip. He stared blankly at me, the bags under his eyes pronounced, his lips chapped—he was surrounded by a sallow haze. He personified the drudgery of winter that seemed would never subside.
“What happened,” I demanded, banging my fist on the table for emphasis.
He finally looked up at me, with a strange detachment and said, “use your imagination.”

* * * * *
She had never worn that look before, and he couldn't quite classify it. When they met, usually on weekend evenings, she approached wearing a smile—one she really committed to with her painted lips, fully exposed teeth, blushing cheeks, and squinting eyes; but not contrived—natural. This look was different, she appeared to be dispassionate from the redundancy of the recent grueling turn of events, a prisoner of her own pain. She was not wearing the one year anniversary necklace, the two year promise ring, the two-and-a-half year earrings, and she did not reach for his hand reflexively like she usually would.
He did not even shave for this outing, the prickly pores seem to her almost a personal attack. Care more, she wanted to throw the words at him and let them shatter in the atmosphere like a porcelain vase, for they were certainly as fragile. He smelled less of cologne and more like Five Guys fry-cookers. She was certain that he had forgotten the fire that went before, his usual response to her presence was missing.
“Hi,” she said, crossing her arms instead of opening them for an embrace.
Sensing that there was an issue, he fumbled for her hand.
“What movie do you want to pick?” he asked. “It's your call,” he added, grasping at straws.
“I don't care,” she said, staring straight ahead at the movie listings and times, avoiding his eyes at all costs, trying to ignore the warmth of his fingers on her palms.
He immediately regretted not stopping for a bouquet of flowers on the way over.

?

I learned at an early age that everything has a price,

especially the words that we let escape our lips.

So if I'm looking for an exit from conversation, a way to distance myself,

it's another way of saying I'm avoiding .....

(I have to finish this later)

Dad

Dad loves his family more than life itself,

though he never had the smarts before.

He is beginning to learn about blank stares,

eye-rolls, stark yes and no, I don't knows,

and when to let it go.

He is no longer too proud to understand

that we are defined by other factors,

more than just a product of his DNA,

although he still shovels the snow

even though the doctor said not to.

a reaction to the homily on Sunday

I went to Church this past Sunday for the first time since Christmas Eve. The priest said that 10% of our happiness depends on circumstance, the rest depends on our attitude.

Food for thought: you wouldn't say that a child growing up in a low-income area with addicts for parents can gain entry to a high-achieving school just on his or her good attitude, would you? Circumstance is everything.

Circumstance sways our attitudes. If I'm driving down the road in a good mood listening to my favorite song with the windows down and suddenly I have a flat tire, I'm not going to maintain my good attitude...that's for sure.

I don't know, that homily just made me think a lot.

My parents can't help that they have a developmentally disabled child. They did not choose that for themselves. No matter how good their attitudes are, that will always remain their reality.

It's easy to make blanket statements about the importance of having a good attitude, but it's not easy to keep a good attitude when circumstance is constantly slapping you around.

DEPTH IS IMPORTANT

my inability to allow myself to be visibly angry with you

keeps me from sleeping at night

I think about it, what it all means about how you feel about me,

and what's wrong with your hypothetical lack of feelings--

repressed fury looms all around me

and here I am at 1 AM,

gonna skip the gym again in the morning because I stayed up late wondering why you can't figure it out that I'm mad,

and I'm a human traffic jam all over.

Fucking appreciate me.

Why can't I sleep?

I'm going to miss another work out.

Why doesn't he appreciate me?

Maybe he would if I went the gym every once in awhile.

That's stupid, just go to sleep...

^^and we are stuck. I am stuck.

would I feel better to lash out?

cathartic, yes, but you would just lash right back, and I'd cry.

there's no directions I could give

to get you into my mind,

and there's no road-map, either.

and you're just a guy.

forgetful

you're suddenly busy and I evaporate,

distilling into almost nothing.

I'm the misty pearls of water on your bedside window,

the forgotten dew on the unkempt grass surrounding your apartment.

I'm the book I gave you three years ago for Christmas you haven't cracked open since,

the forgotten Tupper Ware containers from baked goods prepared months prior to now--I'm about as primary a concern as they are right now.

could you have forgotten the nights spent, not so long ago, me tracing the outlines of your shirtless chest, the glasses of sparkling Moscato, and how our conversation bubbled over with such fervor? how about the dinners we shared, the gifts we painstakingly hunted and exchanged, the family gatherings we attended holding hands, eyes meeting and locking in a trance, regardless of the idle chatter of the relatives that surrounded us?

underhanded ways of blurting my feelings of anonymity go pitifully unnoticed,

the opportunities I hand out for you to draw me forth are rebuked--not out of spite, but ignorance.

In this moment, I'm content to slip through the cracks and harden.

if you don't know me by now...