Men will be men (ie pigs), after all.

He whistled slowly as she walked by his desk, a couple of his henchmen crowded around him like frat boys.

“With that ass, it’s no wonder she’s been getting so much attention. What man in his right mind could resist a treat like that?”

She stopped walking abruptly and turned to him. “Excuse me?”

He raised an eyebrow and eyed her hungrily. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Did you not hear me?” A man beside him chuckled.

“Well, I think I heard you correctly, but I’m having a hard time believing that even you would make a comment so misguided and offensive.”

He held out his hands to his sides, the picture of innocence. “Offensive? I was just paying you a compliment.” He tilted his head and eyed her. “A well deserved compliment.”

At this, she crossed her arms in front of her and looked him over, from his scuffed shoes and ill-fitting pants, all the way to his shiny, balding head. Taking it all in, this image of a sad man who was trying so hard to recapture his glory days, she couldn’t help but smile slightly.

Seeing her smile, he smirked, clearly thinking he had won. Flattered his way through her weak, feminine defenses. “That’s the spirit, sweetheart.” One of his cronies high-fived him, laughing.

“You know what your problem is, Ed?”

He turned to look at her, smile frozen on his face.

“You are unforgivably daft.”

Now it was his turn to look offended. “What did you say?”

He leaned forward in his chair, and it creaked under the weight of his body.

“Now, I know that this might be hard for you to understand, but the compliments that I’ve been getting on my work have nothing to do with body.”

Ed laughed, leaning his head back and putting one hand on his slight gut. She noticed that his shirt was a little tight, and found this detail to be sad. He must have been quite dashing a few years ago.

“I get it. You’re threatened. I’m, what? Ten years younger than you? I’ve been promoted three times in the last eight months, while you’ve been sitting at the same desk for the better part of the decade. And insult of all insults,” she leaned forward and raised an eyebrow, “I’m a woman.”

He scoffed, but it was half-hearted. He had lost his bravado and seemed to deflate slightly under her hard, unwavering gaze.

“Now, in the back of your head, there’s a voice that’s saying, ‘Maybe she’s smarter than you. Faster than you. Works harder than you. Maybe, just maybe, she’s better than you.’ But you can’t handle it. Your poor, fragile little ego just can’t stand the thought. So you look at my body, you look at my ass, and you think, ‘No. A woman like that — she must be sleeping her way to the top. She must be an absolute whore.’

“But let me tell you something, Ed. I’m not here because I’m pretty. I’m not here because I let men make me their play-thing. I’m here because I do my job, and I do it well.”

He stared at her, they all stared at her, wordlessly. Ed’s mouth was open, and yet he was unable to articulate the shock and rage that was so plainly written on his face.

She narrowed her eyes and took a step back, disgusted. “You know, I think your lack of ability to come up with a proper response to my tirade shows exactly why you haven’t been promoted in so long.”

He coughed and began to say something, but she held up a finger and cut him off. “I could get you for sexual harassment, you know. Go to HR right now and get you fired. Right now. But that would only give you an excuse.”

She gave him one last look as she turned away. “And I have a feeling you’re on your way out anyway.”

--

This is how I wish every scene in Mad Men would end.

A series of contradictions.

I simultaneously:
Love and hate the human condition
Want to know and cannot stand most people
Desire to witness human history forever and would like to leave this planet immediately

Everyone is sleeping.

The streets were empty. She could hear her shoes clicking softly against the pavement, and she spun slowly, arms out straight. 

"Why are you so happy?" He asked, hands in his pockets, walking beside her.

She looked at him and noted that he looked pretty happy himself. "The city is ours."

He laughed. "Maybe. But it's only because no one else is crazy enough to wander around on a freezing January night."

Looking at him sideways, she narrowed her eyes a little. "You people are so soft."

"Soft?" Clearly offended.

"It is almost 50 degrees outside. I am wearing cute shoes, a light coat, and a dress. And I am perfectly content."

"You and your midwestern smugness. Just wait until summer. Then I'll get you."

She paused and thought about this reference to the future. Summer. That was four months away. Summer. Where would she be?

Concerned, and unable to deal with this concern on such a beautiful night, she pushed the thought out of her mind and smiled at the boy beside her vaguely. Thought about touching his hair and settled for looking at it for a little while. Thought about touching his lips and settled for looking at those as well. Then felt slightly creepy and looked away quickly.

And just in time. He turned to her, his cheeks red from the cold, eyes wide and expressive.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

At this question, she smiled wide and lifted her eyebrows mischievously. "Ice cream."

And she laughed loudly as he groaned, her voice echoing against the high concrete buildings that surrounded them, filling the night air with the sound of her joy.

I'm a dirty girl. ...No, no. I meant literally dirty. Sorry.

Hot date. No time (motivation) to shower. Will resort to distraction tactics of a nice dress and a touch of make up. I hope it will work. Experience has taught me to reveal lack of enthusiasm about hygiene no earlier than the third date.

(You gots to trap 'em with your feminine wiles before revealing your [literally] dirty secrets, ladies)

Buzzkill.

Sometimes, when I am having a conversation, you come up. It usually happens with someone I have not talked to in awhile, and they don't know. They don't know that you passed away. So they'll mention you, casually, maybe as a little bit of a joke. And I find myself going along with it. Just pretending that you're still alive. Maybe even adding a casual comment or two. Because I don't know how to tell them.

I don't know how to say it, this lump of a sentence that stops all conversation and causes them to look at me with such pity in their eyes. "Actually, he's dead."

Just don't overthink this.

"Why do you always have to be so cynical?"

"Because sometimes things come. Good things. But there's no future in them."

Seeing him, walking across the street towards her, his long legs covering the distance with no effort at all, his unruly hair piled on his head, hands in his pockets, she suddenly felt the urge to take a picture. To stop the moment entirely and watch him, his hooded eyes peeking out at her, lopsided smile on his face, watch him walk toward her for the rest of her life. Or at least for the next hour or so.

But she couldn't stop time, couldn't even slow it down to admire him properly, and suddenly he was there. Standing before her and waving his left hand in a gesture of greeting.

"Hi."

"Hey."

He didn't sit, and she felt unsure of what to do. So she stood, just as he made to sit down at the table. They both paused, frozen in awkward positions, looking at each other. After a few seconds of this, his mouth partly open, her knees still slightly bent as she rose, they began to laugh. Earnestly and with a little bit of embarrassment. 

In that moment, she remembered why she was here, sitting at an overpriced, outdoor patisserie on a crowded street on a windy day. She remembered why she had worn her new skirt, cinched at her waist and reaching her toes, and why she had brushed her hair out carefully in the mirror at her studio, letting it fall around her shoulders freely, as she rarely did. 

Because there was something there, between them. It had been there when they had met, a week ago, in a crowded house on New Year's Eve, and it was there now. It was quieter now, in the light of day without the borrowed courage of alcohol and the rush of new beginnings, but it was still there; of that, she was sure.

Still laughing, they both sat down, smiling at each other, comfortable. 

He leaned forward in the small iron chair and folded his hands on the table. "You haven't been waiting long?"

She shook her head, feeling shy about his closeness, the intensity of his stare. "No. No, not at all. I'm just -- I'm enjoying the day."

He looked out at the sky, which was a beautiful soft blue and nodded slowly. "We are pretty damn lucky, that's for sure."

"I know! This is my first winter in California, and I--"

"Wait, really?" He looked at her, head slightly tilted.

She nodded, used to this reaction. "Yeah."

"But I thought your parents..."

"It's complicated, but technically, I have only been living here since November. Before that, I was in Michigan." She shrugged her shoulders as he looked at her as most people native to California did when she revealed this news, as if they couldn't imagine a young woman such as herself having to face the atrocities that lay outside their state's borders. It was a mixture of astonishment and awe that she found endlessly amusing.

"Wow. Then yeah, I guess you really must be enjoying today," he said. And it was true. She couldn't quite get used to the weather, and had to keep reminding herself that, in spite of the fact that she was wearing a skirt and tank top, in spite of the fact that she had taken a nap in the grass a few days ago, and in spite of the fact that she had spent all of last weekend lounging in a pool, it was January. January. Her Michigan counterpart would have been decked out in snow boots, a large winter coat, and three pairs of long johns. And yet here she was, sunglasses in hand, about to have lunch outside in a very nice part of town with a very good looking man.

Life, she thought, was strange, indeed.

"What are you writing?" He gestured at the red notebook in front of her, which was open, her favorite pen lying beside it.

"Um," she looked down at the scribbles on the page and, for once, felt grateful that her handwriting was barely legible, even to her. "Nothing really." A pause. "Stupid stuff."

Looking up, she saw that he was looking at her, a wide smile on his face. "Oh yeah?" Eyebrows raised, eyes sparkling mischievously, he was beautiful, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

She laughed a little, smiling stupidly back at him. "Yeah."

Unlike most people, he did not ply for more details, grab for her notebook, or ask if he could read it. He just  smiled at her and nodded, accepting her answer.

A waiter approached them then, a skinny man with a black apron tied around his waist. He handed them both slim, one page menus, took their orders for water, then walked away.

"Have you ever been here before?"

She looked over the menu, which had an array of pastries and sandwiches. "Nope."

"Me neither." Their eyes met over their menus. She smiled. "It will be an adventure, then!"

Just then, their waiter placed two glasses of water on the table before them. As soon as the waiter left, he picked one glass up and held it up to her. "To new adventures."

She held her glass to his and laughed spontaneously. "To new adventures."

--

First draft of the first part of something, my friends.

Ice cream trucks and empty houses.

I fill my head with dreams of home until the morning light leaks slowly into my window. I peer out through the cracks in my blinds at the sky stained pink and red, and I wonder what you see. If you see me.

"I'm sure you know that I'm leaving."

I was getting ready to mail something to Manifest. A little piece of writing for their annual drawing exhibit, and in doing so, I was looking through old emails. I came across a cluster of emails from you. To you. They were from a few years ago, and they were beautiful.

God, we were so young and beautiful. I loved you, bud. And you loved me. And no matter what has happened since, it happened. It happened, that glorious love. And I'm happy to have been a part of it. Because it was a pretty good time. I just wish I could let you know. That I'm glad. I'm glad we were such good friends, you and I.

I am happy, and I am me.

At the beginning of every day, I like to ask myself, "If I died today, would I be happy with how I spent my time?" In college, the answer was usually, "No." Don't get me wrong. I loved college. In a lot of ways, I really did. I love learning; I love art. But I didn't love the town I was in, and I always felt like I had a lack of space, a lack of control over my life and the things in it. I felt so far away from so many people who I loved.

But now. Surprisingly, the answer is usually, "Yes." I love my job. I really do. I love the weather here. I have a studio space, a great living space, am surrounded by good company, and have plenty of time to work on my art. Yes, this situation is temporary, and I will probably be moving on in a few months. But for now, I will allow myself to savor it, each and every day.

Today, we drove back from a few days well spent in San Diego. Walking into my place, I noticed that my work table was set and ready for me, the sunlight was streaming into the windows,and that my bed looked fantastic. So I did the only thing that made sense: I opened all the windows to let the spring-like breeze stream into my room, got cozy in bed with the third book in the Eragon series, and read until I fell asleep, feeling very happy indeed.

There's no room for genuine feeling.

I am remembering the reasons for forgetting in the first place.