It's a little short, but oh well.

You lied.

You cheated.

You slapped.

You hurt.

You maimed.

And I accepted.

Accepted that sometimes, that was love. That it was ok. That is was normal.

Friends would look at me with pity, with sorrow, and with disgust.

I looked inside me, and had no idea who it was.

I left.

And you had no idea I was gone.

Then again, how could you? You didn’t recognize me when you had me.

So why am I surprised you don’t recognize me now?

Love both of those, ita and Aimee.

ita, I know another Jamaican-Canadian (born on the island, raised in Missisauga, her folks are back in Jamaica now, and she's living in Portland, Oregon, of all places) who would just smile and nod her head at your latest.

Deb, you broke me a little bit, as you always do.

Perkins, I don't know whether to hope that yours isn't from life, or just marvel at its glittering simplicity while staying well away from its very sharp edge.

Aimee, ouch. That's lovely and heartbreaking.

Oh, you can make me laugh. And you know it. You know exactly when I'll be overcome with giggles, unable to stop laughing out loud. You know how to get my heart rate galloping by word alone. I will be breathless and begging for your touch, exactly when you want me to.

You know what makes me cry, and how to get me to stop. You remind me that people care, that it's never as bad as I think, never as pointless. You love me.

Standing here in the arrivals lounge, I wonder how much I look like my photographs.

Perkins, I don't know whether to hope that yours isn't from life, or just marvel at its glittering simplicity while staying well away from its very sharp edge.

It's funny, because the first part very much is, based on pre-reunion thoughts, and the second part very much isn't. Not quite sure where it came from.

Sticking with - well not fairy tales, but classic stories...

Patient

People marvel at how calm I stay. But I know you. You would never betray me for someone who would stay loyal to you. When your new queen turns Judas, you'll tearfully repent and go back to me. I’ll smile as though receiving the greatest of all possible rewards. Everyone will hold me up as a model of how the perfect meek woman behaves.

I’m patient, I’ll wait. But some fine spring when you are in the mood, I’ll serve you a fine bowl of watercress, and lettuce, crowned by what you will swear are mushrooms fried in garlic – a wonderful salad, served cold.

Oh, EXCELLENT revenge fantasy!

Future Shock

When I met Marsha, she was thirty. She roller-bladed to relax.

When I met Rosemary, her first novel had just debuted. She dropped the book at the reading, flushed, mumbled, picked it up, dropped it again.

When I met Diane, she'd just been diagnosed. She was a dancer. That was eight years ago.

I look at them, my sisters in illness. All three are progressive. Only one can still walk unassisted.

My neuro tells me mine is relapsing-remitting. But I already see the signs of my own damage. Eight years from now, will I recognise the woman in the mirror?

Of course you recognize me. I haven't changed at all.

And, because you see what you expect to see, you'll compliment me on my youthful appearance ("What moisturizer do you use?"). You'll assume I've been working out and watching what I eat. (You'd be right. Except that my definition of watching what I eat is a bit different now.)

And if it occurs to you that you only see me at night, well, that must be because we both have such busy lives.

I haven't changed at all. And I never will again.

a lot of variety, this time, not really from me, though