PFTIB: A Short Work of Fiction, Vol. 9

November 7, 2015


I was fortunate enough to live within the moment, all the while knowing that it would one day be something I would look back on nostalgically. It’s a powerful feeling to live in the now, but still aware that the moment was something slightly bigger. This was London. This is why I came in the first place.

And this is why I was leaving.

This is why I was sitting on a train, with everything I owned strapped on my back slowly making my way south.

I really missed my walkman. The empty train car was a terrible conversationalist, and any inner dialogue I might have had was said hours ago, leaving me with an awkward silence in my own head. It was like my junior prom all over again, only without a date staring blankly back at me.

I could have stayed in London. I could have carried on at the pub with my friends, drinking, smoking and treating each day as if it might be our last. I had found nothing but amazing experiences riddled in excess hiding around every corner of the city, but…I needed something more. This might be the only chance I had to strike out in search of something else with such lightness. It was a moment and I was living within it, all the while knowing I was headed toward something slightly bigger. This was Kent.

This is why I came in the first place.

But this time, I was completely on my own, and it was scary as hell.

Is Playboy Trying to Pull a New Coke?

October 21, 2015


Playboy is removing nudity from their print publication, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. Maybe I hate change. Perhaps I think icons should be icons. Or maybe, I just really like boobs.

Rationally, it makes sense for the bottom line. When Playboy removed nudity from their web presence, their traffic increased by more than 200% as their readers could now view and forward their articles without the question of what’s tasteful (or allowed at work.) Removing the nude centerfold in the print publication would allow them to remove age restrictions, and the simple taboo of reading it in public.

On paper, it seems like the best move, and one I’m sure many branding and advertising consultants stand by.

This may help with a temporary increase in readers, but it won’t save the magazine. To survive in a world where print is fast becoming as endangered as a condor, they need to remember what made them great in the first place. It’s something they lost back in the early 80’s when Hugh Hefner stopped wearing clothes, and decided the magazine needed to compete with the more pornographic counterparts of Penthouse and Hustler.

In an interview with the Times, Playboy CEO Scott Flanders said, “That battle has been fought and won… you’re now one click away from every sex act imaginable for free.” I cannot disparage this fact (just look at my browser history). But Playboy wasn’t about that when they began. Sure, they have always celebrated a sex-positive mentality, but it was originally less about objectification and more about breaking cultural taboos.

What made Playboy great was the idea that you could talk about culture, the political landscape, (which didn’t always fall under correctness) civil rights, society at large, AND sexuality. In some respects, it helped reshape certain ideals of masculinity left over from the older generation. The models were either elusive celebrities showing a far more intimate side of themselves, or simply the girl next store. More importantly, it was a small part of a much larger narrative.

Playboy not only had it’s finger on the pulse of the world, it chose the rhythm. It became a melting pot of famed authors, civil rights leaders and a sophisticated culture just on the cusp of creature comfort. It was stylish, intelligent and most importantly, relevant. The joke about reading Playboy for the articles exists because there used to be articles worth reading. Interviews with Martin Luther King Jr, fiction by Ray Bradbury and Kurt Vonnegut and articles penned by Shel Silverstein sat next to reviews of the newest technology, music, fashion and yes, beautiful nekkid ladies.

It’s less about not seeing boobs, and more about Playboy folding into the type of magazine that inspired them to make something different in the first place.

If they want to survive they need to return to the social narrative they helped create. Just as they had previously, Playboy needs to reclaim sexuality, and censoring their content will not achieve this. Don’t remove nudity, just redefine what nudity is.

Nudity is more than silicon valleys with rivers of saline. It extends beyond tentacle porn and easily searchable gang bangs with naughty MILFs. We live in a world where one’s definition of beauty is not a single, uniform vision, and playboy could help push the idea back to the forefront. Lose the photoshop and airbrushing, celebrate a variety of body types and for god’s sake, free the nipple.

Most importantly, give us articles worth reading.

Now, perhaps, this is merely a modern variation of the New Coke strategy. Make a big deal out of changing the recipe and celebrate the free press and attention. Then, wait for the public outcry before returning to Playboy Classic, thus garnering even more free publicity and a boost in subscriptions. But they don’t seem that smart, at least not any more.

So, congratulations Playboy. You are now Maxim Magazine.


September 30, 2015

So what the hell is this? Where the fuck am I?

Who am I?

That’s the biggest question, and one I’m not too sure will unfold within the narrative. Life doesn’t always bounce between plot points with an indie soundtrack and well thought out end. When you look back, what do you see? What do you really have?

Moments are what we have. Brief instances where we can remember that smell, that feeling…Sharp moments that are little more than flashes. We piece these moments together by living within them.

This isn’t the meaning of life, but perhaps it proves life has meaning, if for but a moment.

Like a High School Crush

September 12, 2015


The weather felt like a high school crush.

It was far too nice outside. I had to open up the house and let it breathe. I probably needed to do the same.

I was working on some campaign concepts for a client, and I had some strong ideas, but they were circling just slightly out of reach. I hadn’t used this part of my mind for quite some time, and had started to wonder if I even could anymore. A gentle gust of wind cut through the front windows of my lonely little bungalow stirring up dust and dog hair. Suddenly, my home felt far less comfortable and accommodating than it had for the past few years of self-imposed exile from the greater society at large.

I needed a change, even if it was as simple as the scenery.

I assembled my laptop, notes, booze, cigarettes and dogs and migrated out back, past my neglected bathroom and mess of a kitchen. Solitude was slowly turning my house into a single man’s cliche complete with empty bottles and full ashtrays scattered about like thrift store chotsky. It didn’t bother me, and my dogs didn’t care. There was nobody else to impress.

It was beautiful outside. The weather felt like a high school crush. The whole world was made golden by the sun, and the breeze felt like pure energy. The day felt open ended; there was opportunity, even if it wasn’t obvious. It made me feel a strange anticipation for something potentially wonderful. The sun was so inviting I felt as if I might actually find a way to step into the light and embrace it. The day felt like falling in love for the very first time—new and wonderful.

It was a feeling that had become rather foreign to me.

I could hear the music escaping from my living room, a constant attempt to fill an otherwise silent space. Outside, dogs barked and the neighborhood buzzed with the simple ritual of lawn maintenance and weekend activity. They were far enough away to blend in and add to the greater landscape, but immediate and present enough to remind me there was, indeed a world outside of my mind.

Those campaign ideas were still floating above me, still just out of reach. I needed to think.

Perhaps that was my problem. Thinking had surpassed an exercise or past time and graduated to a nervous tick. I inhabited my mind every bit as much as my safe little bungalow, reflecting on everything. Retrospect had replaced warm memory, and every little moment had transformed into a cautionary tale to learn from. There was no room for regret, but plenty of space to fill with reflection. I had already asked the questions, and for the most part, accepted the answers—at least the ones I was able to find. There were a hundred victories and a thousand tragedies, and I had relived every single one.

It was time to stop.

The weather felt like a high school crush, and all it required was a deep breath and a quiet moment to appreciate. Nothing else was necessary.

It would all be within reach soon enough.

Fondly: Couple’s Therapy Should Have an Open Bar

January 22, 2015


So there I sat, more than an hour early to an appointment I never wanted to make. An appointment I didn’t want to keep. There I sat, smoking, staring at the other cars in the parking lot and wishing—wishing I wasn’t so afraid of the very change I had put into motion. Wishing I could let go of the soft memories and comfort zones so I could simply move forward and create new ones.

Wishing I could tell her there was someone else.

Someone other than the much younger, beautiful dancer who had become so good at filling me with life.

There was someone else.


I couldn’t be her husband. I couldn’t be her anything, aside from her past. Not anymore. Not after failing at it for more than ten years. I just wanted to let go and move on, and hoped she would too.

When I told her I was leaving I expected her to be mad. Hell, I expected her to be livid. It was her natural state more often than naught. I expected her to throw things, further breaking what little we had left, and then chase me out.

But she didn’t. She tried to keep me there.

I lit another smoke, and then obsessively checked the clock on my phone. Fifteen minutes and four cigarettes had passed, as I sat quietly, thinking deeply about everything. It was a heavy weight.

It was that time of day when the sun sat in just the right place to blind you, no matter what direction you were facing, and the smoke hung in the rays of light, frozen in time.

Soon we would be sitting together on a couch talking to a complete stranger about our problems, looking for a referee or judge, hoping time might erase incompatibility.

Couple’s Therapy should have an open bar.

I needed a drink.

When we were together, I missed her. When I would go to her house, my former home, I would miss the familiarity; the way the sun would leap into the house from the french doors in the back and cut across the floor. I missed the walls and the couch and set dressings that had been my backdrop for so many years. There was no trace of me on the walls or shelves, though. There never was, even when I lived there.

When I returned to my new home my thoughts went elsewhere, and I always remembered why I left. I remembered how she acted, how she treated me—how she made me feel. I could hear her angry voice remind me I was worthless. Endless arguments echoed in my head moving in circles. I was trying to convince myself I didn’t have to live like that. She could try to change, and by her word, she was trying, but why should she? I wouldn’t change for her.

She didn’t have to change, but that didn’t mean I had to stick around and take it.

So why couldn’t I be honest? Why couldn’t I just say goodbye to that part of my life? I couldn’t start over until I did, and neither could she.

It was at that moment I realized something important: I needed to bring a flask to the next appointment.

It Was In That Moment.

January 1, 2015

I can remember so clearly. The moment I chose something else. When I stepped out of my cultivated society, all to go somewhere else, to embrace something else.

That moment.

Amidst foreign sounds and no familiar face.  A cold bed and no answer, merely the hard question posed.

That moment I decided not to make it easy or predictable. The moment I realized, regardless of the map, I was a traveler. A man set upon the world merely to traverse, learn and understand the motive of anything. Of everything.

It was in that moment I guaranteed myself that nothing would ever again come easy. It was in that moment I accepted the challenge.

It was in that moment that I became a master of the universe.

Space Wranglers unite.

Fondly: This is Exposition

October 16, 2014


How did I get here?

How did I end up in a van full of sideshow freaks and burlesque girls? I wasn’t a part of this world—I wore suits and manipulated the public’s idea of needing.

Of wanting.

I was neither artist nor musician, my wife made sure of that.

But there was something about her. I was attracted to her; less like a bee to a flower, more akin to a moth to the flame.

So I got in.

Work would understand, my wife would not.

I didn’t really understand it either.

Truth be told, I was just happy to feel something again. Something other than remorse and loneliness. Something other than resignation and defeat. Even fear felt better, at least when coupled with big blue eyes and a smile that worked more effectively than a cattle prod turned up to eleven.

How quickly and easily the unassuming romantic can be swept away by a soft pair of lips—wrapped up between the legs of an idea far more pure than any one person.

The moment I got in that van I knew; I had a lot of decisions to make—a lot of changes to contend with, save for one.

One choice was made obvious and clear, for once you jump down that dark deep hole you simply must chase the rabbit all the way to the bottom.

Jumping head first ensured I would fall, never once thinking about the abrupt landing waiting just below.

I was too busy feeling weightless to notice my stomach drop.

Just where were we going, anyway?

Fondly: Table for one.

September 18, 2014


In my reckless youth, living up to the cliche by searching the vast map of Europe for myself, I never had a problem being alone, free to witness or interact as I pleased.

More to wit, I once relished such exercises.

I could fall in love with a stranger and live out my life without saying a word or lifting a finger. I could fall into the shadows and watch stories unfold, or develop my own.

Somewhere along the line that stopped. With little warning and even less fanfare, going out with others became a chore, unthinkable alone.

The outside world didn’t change, but sadly, I had.

But then, lets be clear about something; having worked so diligently at honing my skill and rank of functioning alcoholic, sitting alone at a dark bar, staring into my old fashioned, was an entirely different exercise.

I could drink alone like a professional. What I could not do is sit down at a table for one and dine alone.

When I sat at a bar I was never alone. I wasn’t in a bar, I was in my drink—in my mind. I was at home.

Dining alone, however was an altogether different thing.

Perhaps it harkened back those lonely moments, sitting at a high school locker, a brown paper bag and book my only lunchtime companions. Such invisible spotlights can be rather blinding.

Perhaps I didn’t like the reminder that I was, indeed, alone. The reminder that the only better half I possessed was merely the left or right side of myself.

Or perhaps I simply didn’t like eating alone.

“How many will be dining tonight?”

Fondly: Catch and Release

June 17, 2014





It was the same every summer.

From our first to our last.

It didn’t matter where we were. It didn’t matter who was watching or what lengths she had to go through to do it.

It wasn’t officially summer until she did it.

I remember one in particular. It wasn’t at the beginning, nor close to the end. It was nestled somewhere in the middle, when things could go either way.

Before they went this way.

We sat on the back porch of our home.

It wasn’t the first summer evening we sat out there, drinking good beer and scratching our dog.

Then she saw one.

And then another.

Suddenly our yard was an all-natural, eco-friendly dance club.

There were lightning bugs everywhere—some call them fireflies, but we never did.

I watched her jump out of her chair, and run down to the yard, barefoot and in her PJ’s. She lunged, and then paused. She waited and watched for them to show themselves for that split second.

And then she caught one.

I watched from the porch as she whispered something into her hands, occasionally illuminated through her fingers by the nervous blink of a captive audience.

And then she let it go, watched it fly away and came back to the porch.

As she sat down, she told me, “I named him Herbie. Summer can begin.”

She took a drink, and I looked at her.

This was the part of her I fell in love with.

Sadly, it was just one of many pieces, and we had become very different puzzles.

I still catch a lightning bug every year, whisper a name and let it go.

Sometimes, that’s all you can do with something so wonderful.



My Blue Heaven, Pt. 2

June 16, 2014

I am not a handy person. I’m more of an idea man.


But after four years, it was time.


Time to claim my yard and create my own personal Blue Heaven.


I have always loved sitting out back, usually on the top step of the porch.


But. I rarely went down the steps into the yard.


It’s uneven, ugly—grass won’t grow in parts, and the patio area was too small for much of anything beyond a chair.


A. Chair.



So I planned. I planned a budget, and a strategy.


I raked and dug and broke the earth with my bare hands. I broke rocks until my arms were sore, my back ached and my hands bled.


I shoveled and leveled and laid each piece of the patio down, one tile at a time.





I built, I assembled.




And then, I finished.




Sure, there are tweaks to be made, plants to be planted, a grill to assemble still, but by and large, it’s finished.


And as I sit out here, in my own private bar patio, coffee house, living room and office—My Blue Heaven—writing this rather bland post about Doing It Myself, I feel proud of what I made.


I am content with where I am—A satisfied man.


Happy Father’s Day

June 15, 2014

It’s Father’s Day.

I didn’t get to see mine today.

He’s in the hospital with blood clots on his lung, and I’ve been dealing with my own ailments all day. (getting old is a pain in the ass—quite literally at times.)

But that doesn’t mean he’s not with me, all the time.

I was a rather lucky person to have such a great man as a father—such a great man to raise me.

He did more than teach me how to throw a baseball, and ride my bike. More than convince me spaghetti grows on trees.

He taught me how to be a good person, and hopefully, one day, a great man.

He taught me how to be respectful to others, that it is okay to be affected.

Most of all, he taught me how to pick myself up and start again—a lesson that still comes in handy, and one he still reminds me when I need it most.

I may never be a father, I may never get to be the type of great man my father is, but I’m a good man because of him.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.

See you soon.



My Blue Heaven, Pt. 1

June 11, 2014

I acknowledge the fact that I’ve written very little as of late.


This is for two primary reasons:


I’m in the process of curating and revising a book of short stories, essays and poems for a Fall 2014 release. This takes time not to write, but to review what I’ve already done, to coordinate with my editor and designer…




The main reason, is my reaction to the most current mental funk, manual labor.


I’ve lived here for four years now. Every nice day I spend the majority of it out back, sitting on my porch, top step.


I write, drink, and play out there. I watch my dogs at their happiest.


But I never leave that porch, save to take the trash out to the alley.


So I decided to fix that.


I love my backyard. It has no trees, but the neighbors do, and that gives me shade, and my dogs room to run and romp and play.


So this month has been spent digging, raking, tilling, laying down patio and assembling things.


I’m not finished, but I’ve done enough now to sit out here on a couch, typing this blog as Daisy chases lightning bugs and Deuces sits next to me for the ear scritches.


Stay tuned. You know I like to share.



One year later.

June 4, 2014

I started drinking early yesterday.

I have gotten rather good at *not* turning to the bottle when I’m down. Alcohol is part of a celebration of life, not a tool to numb myself from it…

Not anymore, at least.

But it was not a normal day, and the dark clouds that hung low were nothing so trivial as lost love or a forced change in career paths.

One year ago, I lost an important person to me. One of the most important, in fact.

I could go on and on about what made her such an important person to so many.

But I already did that.

This isn’t about losing Stephanie.

This is about what has happened since.

I don’t shed a tear, once a year to prove she was here.

I shed a tear often, with every fond memory recalled.

But the tears aren’t pure sorrow; they are more.

She was more. More than my high school love, my summer romance.

She was more to so many. She impacted people the right way.

And that is what this is about.

Making the right impact in this world, making the right impact with the people around me.

When Stephanie passed, I tried so hard to pick up where she left off. To volunteer my time, to mentor and inspire.

I failed.

I was too busy watching my own life fall away to help anybody else.

Further proof of how strong Stephanie was. She was fighting cancer, six years longer than they had given her. She never once let it stop her. Her personal tragedies were hers, but she still took on those of others.

I failed.

I failed at being Stephanie.


I am someone else. I had a hard time swallowing my failure to emulate her; where was my impact? What had I done for anyone?

And then, one year to the day, I met two young men. Fans of my work. Fans of my writing, with no mutual friends nor connection. They found my novel randomly at a bookstore, drawn to the design of the spine, and were sold after the first sentence, by their own accounts.

I spent the afternoon with them, talked about the book, my work and process, talked about them, and their lives.

They told me as they read Rorschach’s Ribs, they found themselves saying, “yeah, that’s exactly how I feel,” and “I feel like this was written for me.”

Which means it was. It means I made an impact. I moved them, inspired them; but not in the attempt to be someone else.

When I was their age, I was inspired by the work of Douglas Coupland. I met him, had him sign my book and gave him a letter I’d written.

He was uncomfortable and never responded, and I began to wish I hadn’t shattered the illusion.

I’m not as famous or successful as Coupland. I probably never will be.

But I will always be more accessible. I will always simply be me.

The afternoon probably meant as much to me as it did to my fans, my new friends—if not more.

I failed at being Stephanie, but I did not fail to properly honor her life; by doing my best to inspire those around me—to make a positive impact on the world.

This is, perhaps, the greatest lesson she left behind for me.

She impacted me.

Now it’s my turn to do the same.


As Marcus.

Fondly: Spoonman

May 29, 2014



My wife didn’t like us to touch when we slept, or most any time we were awake for that matter.

She insisted we buy the largest bed possible to avoid such atrocities as one of my legs drifting over.

I had no idea what I was missing, until her. As we laid in my much smaller queen sized bed, she whispered quietly in my ear nine words I never knew I even needed to hear, until she said them. Nine words my wife would never say, at least not to me.

“Do you want me to big your big spoon?”

I said nothing more than a faint, barely audible “yes.”

Then I felt her leg wind into a tangle with mine, an arm tucking gently around my torso. I felt her beautiful, young body press against mine, until I could no longer tell where I stopped and she began.

Her breath was warm; steady, soft—a lullaby sweeter than music.

It really felt like she wanted to be there, melting into me. I believed it with all of my heart, as my brain screamed obscenities and called me a fool.

But to be loved in such an open, warm way made my mind’s opinions moot.

It was everything I ever craved in my previous life.

Everything I never had.

I never wanted to sleep any other way ever again so long as I lived.

I did my best to enjoy the warmth and intimacy of the moment; I tried to ignore that nagging feeling in my gut that there wouldn’t always be a spoon to help reassure me of my choices.

But there was for now.

Fondly: Awake

May 29, 2014



I used to lay awake…in a cold bed, next to an even colder woman. I would lay there and think about everything. I would think until my mind was overwhelmed and confused—turned inside out and tangled up.

It always started with the same thought:

I should leave.

This isn’t my beautiful wife. This is not my beautiful house.

How did I get here?

More to wit, what would happen if I left?

I would lose my house, my TV, my couch and over-priced dining room table.

I would lose 13 years of memories shared.

I would lose my dog.

I would be alone.

Possibly forever.




What is alone like?

I wondered, and then pondered…

And then I had an anxiety attack.

I had never been alone. Not really.

Siblings and parents, roommates, a girlfriend and then a wife.

What if this was my one and only chance? What if I left and never found another person to share my life?

Nobody to talk to—nobody to spend holidays and weekends with, regardless of how those weekends were being spent.

It scared me. It scared me enough to stay.

And now, even after leaving, I lay awake, listening to the deep breathing of another warm body slumbering beside me for no reason other than a simultaneous fear of waking up alone.

Perhaps I needed to learn how to be codependent on myself, for a change.

Fondly: It Must Be Love

May 4, 2014



Madness. It had all fallen into complete madness. A freefall.


I had jumped. I needed to for the both of us.


It wasn’t always so bad—our life together didn’t begin with such bitter resignation.


We used to enjoy one another’s company.


We spent our honeymoon in London, or more to wit, inside various pubs of London. Drinking was one thing we still had in common, if little else.


It was our last night before returning to reality. We spent it in our favorite local, just down the road from our hotel. We had gotten to know the regulars and bartenders, by face, if not name, through repetition and an open invitation to converse with anyone willing to talk.


I bet the wife I could get the bar to serenade her, without asking. The prize, one pound coin.


And eternal respect for my charm.


I finished my pint, walked to the jukebox and selected the proper song, before making my way  to the bar for a refill.


I selected It Must Be Love by Madness. I’m fairly certain everyone in England knows this song.


As the song began, I noticed the regulars tapping their fingers, and bobbing their heads, gently to the intro. I began to sing along quietly, just loud enough for the people next to me to hear.


When the chorus came around, a burly, bearded old Brit with a cane and a can of snuff stood up and wailed out the chorus with everything he had. His eyes were closed, his face red, his pint was swinging along, spilling onto his had and the floor. That was enough to bring the rest of the bar in for the next chorus.


I walked over to the wife and took her hand. She smiled and blushed, a growing rarity as the calendars turned. I lead her to the center of the bar with the drunk, singing patrons all around her. I winked, and rejoined the chorus.


I still have that pound coin.


What I felt once upon a time; It must be love.




Hospital Blues

April 30, 2014

Here I sit. Tubes and IV’s, swollen spots on both hands and arms from blood tests…bruised belly from shots…trapped in a room, attached to a machine. No smoking, no drinking, no puppies.

And sadly no inspiration to do anything other than sit and wait to go home.

Fondly: When I Was Your Age…

April 1, 2014



“When I was your age…”


When you’re dating someone 13 years younger, this is the moment your relationship changes.


It strikes a nerve—in both of you.


Suddenly, one of you feels young, while the other, extremely old.


It reminds you both that your love isn’t wildly accepted by the outside world, and maybe, the inside one as well.


It doesn’t change how you feel about her, merely the situation.



Why couldn’t we have both been born in the same generation? Why did Grunge happen when she was four, while I was rebelling in college?


Why didn’t our nostalgia match?


Our passions were the same, and every bit as intense.


But she was still searching for something I had found.


When I was her age…sigh…I was every bit as passionate as I am now…and every bit as lost.



Retrospect: Yum-Yum. (Give Me Some)

March 25, 2014


Four years ago tomorrow, my life took a rather unexpected turn. I’m not sure if it feels like it happened only yesterday, or a million years ago. It was the beginning of something that changed nearly everything.


The day after that, everything did.


It was the first step in a new movement, artistically, and a huge leap with a running start for me personally.


Regardless of what happened after that point, at that point, I finally got the point.


What’s my point?



I suppose that, no matter what happens in my life, I’ll always look back at this and respect the changes it stirred. I’ll remember new friends that would become family, a drunk tramp, bearded lady, fouled mouthed dancing girls, a caged beast, a moonshine-soaked hillbilly, a medicine show barker with suspect intentions and a miracle elixir.


And, of course, darkened elevator shafts.

Fondly: Well-Aged Inapropos

March 19, 2014


“You’re the first grownup I’ve ever dated.”


I’m pretty sure she meant it as a compliment, but it merely made me feel old, and it made her seem really, really young.

When a woman dates a younger man, she is called a Cougar.

When a man does it, he’s a lecherous, creepy, dirty old man in the midst of a crisis of some sort.

Given that most women mature faster, and develop rational thought, that seems a bit unfair.

Given that I act like a 15-year-old in my thirties only proves a point of compatibility.


I’m sure when she told me that, she meant it as a compliment. I’m sure she meant she’d only dated boys until now—boys with fast food jobs, and a strange obsession with video games.

I had already caught myself starting a sentence with, “When I was your age” far too many times, as I searched for our level of equality.

But at her age, she was merely searching.

When I was her age…I was too.


So why did I expect her to be different?

I didn’t even know how old, or perhaps young, she was until well after it was too late. I didn’t ever even think to ask. When your soul finds something that feels right, age becomes inapropos.

So does a house, a wife, and pretty much everything else.