#or hang the middle bracket off-center. hell

[j-esbian]

need to have A Fucking Talk with whoever put together this building because why the fuck is it taking me several days to hang a curtain rod

[tundrainafrica]

Title: Are you having nightmares?

Summary:  

"Levi, are you having nightmares?" Hange's tone was more serious. Her brown furrowed,

"I'm fine."

“Well…” Hange hummed. “You can have nightmares and still be fine right?”

“No. I don’t think you can.” Levi kept his own message subtle. He glared right at her. 

One hand on her chest, Hange seemed to have gotten the message. “Me?”

“Now that we’re on the topic of nightmares. Are you having nightmares?”

Levi and Hange seem to be having nightmares and Levi tries to get to the bottom of it. 

Written for Levihan Week 2021, Day 5: Fairytale

Link: AO3

Notes:

@levihanweek Day 5: Fairytale

I don't know if this is still accepted because it's also so late but I really am hellbent on completing the prompts. I'm still recovering from jetlag and the ten day quarantine and the domestic verse prompts are really just me dealing with some major baby fever.

Hange had a unique way of hiding her true feelings. She was an open book yet an enigma with the exact same breath. And she had always been one, Levi had known her long enough to be sure. The fact that there were so many parts of her he still didn't understand, despite having known her for almost half his life, had been particularly glaring the past few weeks.

Or maybe, Levi was just thinking too far into it.

Levi could have sworn though that something just wasn't right. He had the heavy eye bags, the unshakeable fatigue of almost sleepless nights. In the mornings, he had the bombardment of bustling sounds and soft lights which seemed to contrast annoyingly with his own discomforts.

"Levi, you okay?" Hange asked over a plate of breakfast eggs and basket of bread. Her mood, her approach towards him were just like those of every other morning before.

But Levi had seen too much to be able to stomach it too easily. No, are you okay? He would have liked to ask.

Hange though seemed more occupied with mixing her eggs and rice than with observing whatever expression was on Levi's face (which he could have sworn were heavier than usual) and the sluggish way he was navigating his breakfast.

Without warning, her attention shifted to him, abruptly enough to make Levi jump. "Levi?" Hange waved one hand over his face.

He was lucid enough to see that coming at least. He leaned away from Hange’s touch. "I'm fine. I should be asking you the same thing."

"Hm?" Hange cocked her head innocently to one side. "I'm fine too."

Does your throat burn? Are your eyes swollen? Just a quick look and a quick listen and Levi was sure, Hange was fine, perfectly healthy.

The ordeal every single damn night though was telling another story. And Levi was starting to doubt his own memories. Had he been dreaming?

Loud screams. Fatigue shouldn't have been this vivid if they had just been dreams. Just to be sure of it, Levi pinched himself.

His high pain tolerance, his nonchalance with pain turned out to be an utter inconvenience. Pinching himself had done nothing to wake him up.

It wasn't a dream right? He turned to his son propped on a high chair, still too young to be of any use in that little game of dream versus reality.

"Levi?" Hange asked.

"Yes? What?" If there was anything loud enough to have pulled him out and into reality, it had been his own voice.

"I said I'm leaving for work now."

"See you," Levi mustered weakly.

That day, he didn't accompany Hange to the front door.

***

For his age, Luke had a good handle of words, enough to express the most simple desires. Reading and Comprehension-wise, he was miles ahead for his age bracket and Levi attributed to the time Hange had dedicated to reading to the young boy. If Levi were to be completely honest though, he didn't think a child who barely brushed past the age of one should have been playing more than reading.

Still, there was a convenient pile in the living room right next to the bookshelf. When Levi gathered them in his arms and started to reorganize them on the bookshelf, he found himself the victim of one of his son's whims.

Luke appeared next to him then, pulled at one of the covers with a dragon on it and held it in front of Levi.

"You want me to read it?" Levi asked.

Luke didn't nod but the glimmer in his wide-eyed eyes was enough of an affirmation.

Levi was painfully free not in a hurry to do anything in particular and for once, he didn't have much of a reason to tell Luke 'to wait until dark, until mommy comes home.' In that brief moment, in that silent conversation between father and son, Levi started to notice, he had never read that book to Luke and he wondered why the hell he had never bothered to.

You're his father. Levi scolded himself as he caved into the large pleading eyes of his son.

He settled on the sofa, then he plopped his son right next to him. He held the young boy’s small delicate head onto his lap. Snug and settled, he started to feel for the pages of the book. His eyes landed on the front page for just a second, taking in the red dragon smack at the center.

With nothing else to think about, Levi became a little more aware of the sawdust in his mouth. He was prone to getting so easily self conscious of his voice and he had a strange desire to please his one year old son. He had seen Hange read that book to Luke so many times before.

At that age apparently, most kids seemed to get attached to certain books and that was Luke's favorite. But despite the long hours he spent with the boy, Levi was still a stranger to the plot of the book.

So he started slowly. “Once upon a time, there was a red dragon that lived on top of the hill…”

His voice was naturally soft and Levi suspected as he saw the eyes of his son flutter, that his tone may have been too monotonous.

He started to hear Hange’s voice in his head. She had a way of speaking with a natural cadence. She had a melody, a distinct up and down, then a cadenza to it which probably made the whole reading process a little more engaging for the young boy. Although Levi had never picked up what the story was about, he did immerse himself in whatever melody Hange seemed to sing every time she read aloud.

Levi tried, but he couldn't seem to replicate it. Around the third page, the boy’s breaths evened out, he lay limp on Levi’s lap. They never got past the part where the young dragon left his village in search of his new power.

Levi wasn’t too interested in the plot anyway. One hand cradling his son's head, the other propping his knees up, Levi carried him into the bedroom and tucked him into bed, not giving a second thought about the storybook beyond the need to put it neatly back on the shelf.

***

It didn’t happen everyday but Levi could have sworn, it happened at least thrice a week.

He wasn't good at making accurate estimates though, especially sicne those nights happened too quickly. They happened in blurs. And during those nights, Levi was too busy slipping his hands in between her sides and her arms and he pulled her closer.

The few nights before that, he attempted to wake her but whatever possessed Hange seemed to overpower her. He would try to wake her but it never proved successful. Hange was dead asleep every damn night it happened. Overtime, Levi learned to just play silently, be a good and patient partner and get her through whatever that strange recurring nightmare was.

That consisted of loud nights, screams, short breaths and the occasional long one. Hange let out screams, howls, something Levi had sworn he had never even heard of, even in the middle of the battlefield, bombarded by death after death.

Occasionally, Levi heard a crack in her voice in between screams, followed by some ragged breaths.

It soon became routine and Levi could only do so much. Eventually, her screams deadened into murmurs, then a tranquil silence. Without the trashing, Levi would tighten his embrace. When the sun started to rise, Hange would look back at him and ask him if he were okay. During those moments, Levi was certain, the worst was over. If he were lucky, he had time to fall back to sleep.

One particular morning, when Levi came to his senses again, Hange had turned on her side, her face inches away from him.

She seemed peaceful, calm and just a little amused. Her brown eyes wide, the crinkle and her dimples just a little deeper. She chuckled lightly. “You can let go now.”

***

It was the weekend and Hange was reading that damn book to Luke again.

“Oh no! What happened to the dragon!” Hange asked in mock horror.

"Mommy! What happened?"

“I don't know...” Hange muttered, with over exaggerated confusion. She never gave Luke any freebies when it came to simple questions.

The two were curled up on the sofa again and Levi was in the middle of reorganizing the books on the shelf, and occasionally eavesdropping. When in the middle of doing something as complex as solving his own puzzles in the house, he couldn’t focus on too many things at once.

He did however, pick up the few times Luke roared followed by a laugh from Hange.

“There! That’s it,” Hange said. “The dragon got a new special power…” She was a bundle of pride. She prattled on for a few minutes longer after that.

Having lived with her for years and having worked with her for many years before that, Levi had gotten accustomed to just tuning her out. And everyday he was getting better at tuning his own son when he was starting to sound like Hange when he ranted.

Luke was screaming too, and Hange was laughing. Within the walls of their small apartment, the sounds echoed, bouncing off the walls. Then they rang in his ears.

Levi probably lasted a second, before he gathered the books and started thinking up an excuse for an escape. “I’m going out to the balcony. It’s dirty,” Levi said, his voice a little out of his control.

“Sure!” Hange had stopped her laughs and her and her storytelling only long enough for that, and somehow, that had Levi’s blood slightly seething. He spun around quickly taking in the balcony just outside.

There were unwelcome visitors but for the first time, Levi was welcoming them. And for the first time, Levi was thankful some birds had made a toilet out of the balcony.

At least there was some excuse to clean and leave those two alone.

***

It was one of those nights again. And it just so happened that it had only been a few hours since that lazy afternoon cleaning bird turd on the balcony. Never would Levi have thought that he’d miss the lazy part of that day, even if it involved a pile of birdshit.

If it meant Hange would just stop screaming, if it meant not having to process the weight, the stress, the prickle at his neck.

There was a ringing in his ears. It reverberated. The pain, the discomfort or maybe just the heart wrenching sound was making his eyes water.

Hange was screaming again. It was as loud as every other day before. Levi slipped his hand underneath Hange's side, one under her her free arm, positioned his hands right under her chest and pulled her close. He gritted his teeth. He let out breaths, stayed stiff as she trashed under his grasp.

"I'm here," he murmured. He shushed her soothingly but she probably wouldn't hear it over the sound of her own screams or under the trappings of sleep. Just in case, he buried his face on her neck. He took in her strong scent and willed himself to hold on, and if his body and the sounds allow him any asleep then so will it. If they didn't, so be it.

By some piece of magic or miracle, time moved quickly. He could have dozed off for a second. And maybe Hange had calmed down.

The first sound he processed was the song of the morning birds then the soft even breathing next to him.

A few minutes of flitting in and out of sleep later, Hange spoke up. "Levi…” She struggled weakly out of his embrace. “I have to go to work."

***

"Levi, are you having nightmares?" Hange's tone was more serious. Her brown furrowed, her eyes narrowed. She could have been worried or Levi could have just been another one of her experiments. Most likely, both.

Her own question did have Levi thinking. He could have sworn Hange had been the one having nightmares. Maybe her screams at night were just his own nightmares. Hange had a tendency of playing with his mind though so he stuck with less cooperative answer. "I'm fine."

“Well…” Hange hummed. “You can have nightmares and still be fine right?”

“No. I don’t think you can.” Levi kept his own message subtle. He glared right at her.

One hand on her chest, Hange seemed to have gotten the message. “Me?”

“Now that we’re on the topic of nightmares. Are you having nightmares?”

Hange looked up at the ceiling, seeming deep in thought. “Not really…Why are you asking that?”

Did he tell Hange he had dreams she was screaming? Was that something he should have been worried about? When too many questions were running through his head, Levi chose to bend down and focus on his breakfast, use that brief reprieve as some opportunity to organize his thoughts, maybe find a way to explain the screaming, the need to comfort her in his dreams and then the impulse to hold her close.

He stayed mum for a second too long.

“Might be late for work! See you later.” She was out the door before Levi could even process what the hell had happened.

***

Levi was stuck with Luke again. While still reflecting on Hange’s strange behavior, he would have preferred to be alone.

Children though were a piece of work twenty four seven. He fed the kid, bathed him, dressed him and when he thought it was over, Luke suddenly asked him to read that damn book again.

Three pages into it, it didn’t look like Luke was going to fall asleep anytime soon.

“Keep reading daddy!”

No. Levi was tempted to say it out loud. It was easy not to give into temptation though. There were too many things he could occupy himself with.

Like what’s supposed to happen next? Levi thought to himself. There was something about the dragon going on a journey to discover his true powers. Then his trusty fairy friend coming along with him. It was difficult to do everything at once: read aloud, take in the drawings in the picture book, watch Luke while the young boy pranced around the room and while doing all that, making sense of the plot.

So when Luke asked some question about the story, Levi would just answer ‘yes.’ Once or twice, Luke called told him he was wrong. At the least, Levi was grateful that his son was smart enough to comprehend the plot of a book Hange had read to him endlessly.

A few more pages until the end, and Luke started to roar. The sound bounced on the walls, flew across the room and somehow, Levi found himself jumping at the sound. What the fuck.

Luke was much faster than Levi then. The young boy was skipping around the living room faster, then he started to march, his strides wider. He screamed louder.

“Daddy, do you see the fireball?”

What. Levi raised his eyebrows and nodded. He didn’t see a fireball but he could at make the playtime a little funner for the young boy.

“If I scream louder… it gets bigger!” Then he roared again, louder. He bent forward, pointed his ass back as if that had done anything to make it louder.

He was a toddler. How much louder could he get?

“Do you see the fire?”

Levi nodded. “Yes.” No, he didn't see a fire. It didn't seem right either to kill a toddler's imagination.

“Daddy scream too!”

Levi didn’t concede at first.

But Luke was persistent. “Please!”

He couldn’t bring himself to say no either. He took in a deep inhale, opened his mouth then let out an exhale.

He tried to put some voice into it. He could have sworn he did. Then he started to think, maybe he didn’t.

Luke’s disappointed pout was evidence enough. “Mommy was louder than that..”

***

“Hange, I finished that book.” The words came out of his mouth before he could even why he had decided to say it in the first place. Late at night, during a bout of silence, with his partner being a generally laid back person, Levi didn't think too much anyway about watching his mouth.

Hange looked up at him, the tea cup stopped just inches from her mouth. “Which book?”

“The one you’d read to Luke.”

“Which one?”

“The fairytale book.”

“Which one?”

”The one with the dragon,” Levi said. He sat in front of her with a huff, shaking away the trappings of sleep. It had been a notably exhausting day and it was just one of those few nights that Levi was considering retiring to bed a little bit past midnight.

”Ah yeah, that’s Luke’s favorite.” Hange cupped her tea cup a little tighter, a playful grin on her lips.”It’s fun reading it huh?

Levi didn’t bother to answer that question.“It's an annoying book. Especially if you consider the fact that towards the end, our child starts roaring.”

“Hey, it’s an inspiring story and I think it can teach kids a lot,” Hange said defensively. “A dragon on a quest to find his true powers, defeats a lot of his enemies and he finds out, the fire has been in him all along and all he has to do is let out a loud scream!"

Levi put one hand up instinctively when he spotted Hange taking a deep breath. "You seem invested.."

Hange shrugged. "Well, when you read it enough times, you start dreaming about it."

The key word was ‘dream.’ Soon after, Levi had managed to figure it out for himself. “Wait, wait. You're dreaming about…”

“Being the dragon,” Hange said matter-of-factly. “Like those dreams where I go on that journey, and I meet the wizard and he tells me, the power has been with me all along. And all I have to do is---”

“The power has been with me all along!” The dragon became excited. He inhaled… Then let out a long loud scream.

That was around the time Luke had started screaming. Levi didn’t memorize the story but he was still at least certain enough of that development.

“So in that dream… did you…Scream?” Levi asked.

Hange snapped her fingers excitedly. “Of course, In the story, that’s the only way to breathe the fire right?” she asked, as if she had assumed that Levi had read that book thoroughly.

Levi paused for a moment, and attempted to recall those excruciating episodes. In retrospect, it was easier to notice, Hange’s screams that night weren’t what anyone would have called bloodcurdling.

“Those were pretty vivid dreams…” Hange recounted.

“Very vivid dreams?” Levi corrected. Just like my dreams of you screaming. He had little to no energy though to amend his own response. The more Hange talked about the story, the more excited she seemed. The more she talked about the fire power and the indispensable scream, the more Levi was convinced that her own dreams weren’t a scream.

It all ended with some final confirmation with a soft scream from Hange, similar to the same roar Luke would do in the living room.. When Hange was mimicking the motions of breathing fire that night, it rang heavy, it seemed desperate as if she was running away from something. With the right frame of thought and the right hints, Levi could have sworn Hange had been laughing in between screams.

Laughing. Then screaming, like she was breathing fire. “Hange, how vivid are those dreams?”

“Very vivid.”

“Like...”

“Like…” Hange hummed. “I really remember screaming... Or at least in my dreams. Why?”

“Nothing.”

“You've been having nightmares too right?”

“Well it turns out they weren’t fucking dreams,” Levi grumbled.

“What?” Hange blinked, a confused look on her face.

Levi pushed the chair back and stood up. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“Hey, I’m not yet done drinking.”

“Then hurry up. I’m going to bed.”

That was an empty threat. Levi wouldnt’t have left Hange or retired without cleaning out the tea cups and saucers on the table.

And it looked like Hange saw through it. She smirked playfully. “You serious? You're sleeping this early?”

His eyelids heavy, his mouth trembling in frustration, Levi gathered his own saucer then Hange's. "I haven't been sleeping well these past few nights."

"You're really having nightmares huh? You wanna talk about it?"

"After I've slept enough," Levi said coldly as he brought the dishes to the sink. “We can talk in the morning.”

Hange was persistent. "But you might sleep better if you talk about it right? It doesn't make any sense that you're going to bed and you're gonna risk dreaming about it again."

"I'm. not. having. nightmares." Levi raised his voice over the sound of the water running and the sound of the scrubbing of saucers and cups. "I just said I'm not sleeping well."

There was a pregnant pause. "You wanna see a doctor?" Hange asked hesitantly.

"No. I'm fine," Levi said.

"If we don't talk about this, we won't be able to find a way to fix it." Hange was annoyingly matter-of-fact about it.

But then, Hange usually got the hint. Both of them could usually talk in hints and details more than in actual conclusions and they would also stumble upon some sort of resolution. Maybe the truth was just so farfetched, or maybe Levi's own speculation was just too out of this world that Hange hadn't figured it out for herself.

Then he lost confidence in his speculation. If a genius like couldn't figure it out, then maybe it wasn't true? "Maybe you wanna try not reading that book first?"

"The dragon book?" Hange asked, Of course it was the dragon book. Hange seemed to be stalling and late at night, she seemed to have caught the exhaustion that had been plaguing Levi.

"Yes, that damn fairytale you've been reading to Luke."

Hange looked up, seeming deep in thought. It looked like with time, she was able to put two and two together. A few seconds later, she spoke up. "Am I... screaming in my sleep?"

The cups and saucers cleaned. Levi put them on the tray to dry, looked back at Hange and nodded slowly.

"And that's why you've been holding me in the mornings," Hange continued, a look of utter comprehension in her face. She could have been explaining a new discovery to one of the government officials.

"Yes," Levi answered, his tone firm. Hange's own revelation had been enough to take some of the weight off Levi's shoulders. "Let's go to the room."

When they had settled on the bed, turned off the lights, Hange was still speaking. She was sitting up on her side of the bed and she didn't look like she was in a hurry to sleep any time soon. "And that's why you've been looking so tired lately. God, Levi I was so worried about you too."

Levi mumbled something but he didn't bother to figure out what. He was in and out of sleep already. It was Hange and her loud domineering voice which still managed to tear into that in between state.

"What now?" Hange asked. "If I sleep now..."

"Sleep..." Levi murmured.

She got that part at least. "If I sleep, I'm gonna end up screaming again."

"Baby steps, don't read that damn book." Levi mumbled louder and he hoped it was clear enough for her to understand.

"But Luke---"

"Sleep."

"Levi..."

"Sleep."

Hange could have protested for a few more moments after that but Levi didn't remember the rest of it. The next time he awoke was almost an hour later, once again to loud screams then ragged breaths. To an excuse to slip his arms around her once again and bring her closer to him in one tight hug.

"Baby steps," he whispered just to himself. Baby steps.

[thirsty-flygirl]

Touch Me

Formerly The Textile Series

A Javier Peña x f! Reader Romance

Rating: Explicit - language, sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll. You know the drill, no one under 18 allowed.

Word Count: 988

A/N: Look, it's no secret that I would let Javi absolutely ruin me so here is The Textile Series, back again with a few changes, so I can simp some more over my favorite DEA agent.

Tags: Let me know if you want in!

Part II - Cotton

Javier sat at his desk, the incessant sound of rain outside making him anxious. Bogota had been battered with storms for nearly a week now, making any kind of recon or surveillance nearly impossible. The feeling of doing nothing was making the entire office frustrated and tempers were short.

“Fuck,” Javi heard you mutter as you entered in a squelching rush. Looking up, he saw you completely drenched, your clothing plastered against your skin and leaving very little to his already-vivid imagination. You stalked to your desk and slammed your bag down, Steve cocking an eyebrow at your obvious problem.

“Decide to take an early-morning swim?” he offered with a smirk.

“Go to hell, Murphy." You threw a middle finger in his direction and rifled through your bottom drawer. Steve laughed loudly, catching Javi’s eye with a grin.

“I love pissing her off,” he admitted, shuffling through his papers with a sigh and a chuckle before getting back down to work. Javi regarded you for a moment, still pawing through your desk drawers with a scowl on your face.

"DAMN IT," you shouted, slamming your hand on the desktop and making Steve jump in his chair. You let your head hang in defeat for a moment, wet hair dripping onto the worn wood of your desk. Taking a deep breath, you looked up at the two men bracketing you. "Do either of you have a spare shirt? My car took a shit this morning and I walked here. Obviously this," you gestured to yourself with a wry smile, "is not the look i was going for today."

Still laughing, Steve stood and grabbed his keys. "I got one in my car. Lemme go grab it." He made a quick exit through the office, leaving Javi to once again do his damndest to keep his eyes off you. Two weeks had passed since the night the two of you had stayed late to strategize without Steve, and Javi’s imagination had only run wilder since. The sight of your lingerie had burned into his brain and now he knew he'd never get the image of you, dripping wet and clothes skin tight, out of his mind either.

He made a show of poring over the contents of a folder, reading every line three times just so he wouldn't have to raise his eyes to you. You plopped down at your desk next to him, eyeing the way he studied aerial shots of what appeared to be an abandoned factory.

"Here," Steve announced his return, throwing a white bundle at your head. You snatched it deftly and unrolled the offering to reveal a faded, white, Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt.

"Wow, you really are a fucking hillbilly, Murph." You caught Javi's eye and grinned, and he found himself smirking back at you, his heart tugging a little when he realized how easily you'd worked your way under his skin.

"You want the fucking shirt or not?" Steve grumped, settling back in his chair. "A thanks would have been nice."

"Awwww, Stevie, thank you," you cooed, reaching over to pinch his cheek before swaying toward the ladies room to change with a throaty chuckle.

Javi stared at your retreat, unable to tear his eyes from the away of your hips, imagining what they would look like underneath his palms, the supple flesh giving way as he–

"–Don't think about it," Steve's voice interrupted his reverie. Javi turned to his partner, schooling his face into the picture of innocence. "Yeah, I’m not buying your bullshit, Javi," Steve continued, shaking his head seriously. "I saw that look. Keep your dick in your pants, man. We have a good thing going, and I don’t need you two facing off every goddamn day when you fuck her and run. Hands off–"

"–Hands off what?" You interrupted, breezing back into the room. If Javi had been focused on you going, the sight of you coming (Christ, his cock hardened at that image) knocked him dead. Steve's Skynyrd shirt, fabric worn nearly see-through in some places, stretched across your breasts so that he could see the outline of your hard nipples on display. You had tucked the tee into the black pencil skirt you still wore, and Javi swore he'd never seen a cotton t-shirt look as fucking sexy as it did on you. The outfit coupled with your hair, damp and tousled from the rain, and slightly-smudged mascara gave you a dangerous, sexy look that made his heart pound.

Steve looked up at your return and did a double take, flicking his eyes to Javi before a loud "Awww, fuck" escaped his lips. He grabbed his coffee cup and stood, moving past where you stood in the center of the office, a puzzled look on your face.

Javi managed to pull his eyes from your chest to meet your gaze, trying to ignore the burning in his veins and the primal urge to bend you over your desk and claim you, Murphy be damned.

“Ohhhh-kay," you raised an eyebrow at Steve's retreating form and made your way back to your desk. "What did I miss?” you chirped, taking a seat at your desk and tugging the manila folder from Javi’s grip. Your eyes scanned the contents quickly before flicking back up to his coffee-colored stare. Javi remained silent, memorizing your features, another pang of something hitting him deep in the chest as you offered him a soft smile.

“You didn’t miss a goddamn thing,” Steve chimed in, returning to his seat with a huff and desperate to diffuse the tension between his partners. “Can we get some fucking work done now?”

Javi turned back to his files, forcing everything from his mind except the capture of Escobar. That was the goal here, and he needed to remember that. Getting lost in fantasies about you only served as a distraction and a reminder of things that he would never have.

[chiefbeck]

Chapter 20: A Freedom Ride

I set up a ride for 9/11 as a remembrance ride to the tragedy of September 11th and to honor those who were lost that day and the days following in the hunt for the criminals responsible. We called it the freedom ride.

I set up the event, so I rode way up in front of the pack of motorcycles that cruised Southern California that day.

We had about a hundred motorcycles leaving Imperial Beach heading up Interstate 5 as we got a few miles past the exit. The pack was moving fast and speeding up, and then, all of a sudden in the center lane was a mattress tumbling off the back of a truck, and the entire pack of a hundred motorcycles scattered across the highway avoiding god’s mattress at 80 miles an hour.

Somehow, I don't know how, but the entire pack made it out unscathed. We continued on the highway and got off at Pacific beach, and I needed food and a beer at the first stop.

It was a poker run which has five stops, and you draw a card at each stop to try for the best poker hand. We hang out there for around 40 minutes.

We get back on the road with a few more bikes joining the pack we were possibly a hundred and fifty strong at this point flying up the coast toward the next stop.

Oceanside, California, Moreland choppers, this place is an old school chopper shop located here since the sixties and run by very cool people.

Draw cards, have a beer and get on the road.

We are making our way into northern San Diego to a little bar in the middle of the mountains and the hills; I think it's called The Hideout.

So I hang out there smoking and joking in general; good times and I meet up with one of the Southern California motorcycle clubs. They are meeting us on the road.

They knew about the 9/11 freedom ride and wanted to pay respect to the military and the sacrifices made for their freedom – freedom to ride in a club and do all the things we take for granted.

These are major bikers so they ride way up front and I am following now. It’s biker protocol.

We are riding from the mountains in northern San Diego toward El Cajon to meet at the last bar.

These are some steep and Squirrely passages up and down the mountain; you know, real curvy.

The main club dude is on a real old-school FXR, and he's flying, a natural born rider; really good, freaking fast, it was awesome.

I was catching up, and he saw me, so he waves me up to the front right next to him, and he starts going faster.

He's going faster and I just try to keep up on these crazy curves with cliffs on both sides. He is moving out on a curve. I try to stay with it and slide sideways and hit one of those raised reflectors in the middle of the road and my back tire jumps a bit and then catches. I am high sided and flipping crashing across the road.

I flipped a couple of times and came to a screeching halt fifty yards to the end of the curve with my motorcycle.

Some blood running down my head, my helmets all scraped; my leather jacket has some new holes. The right-hand handlebar has hit so hard that it sticks into the gas tank and gas is pouring out on the highway. The license plate bracket is ripped off, the throttle cable is torn and a few other minor things, scrapes all up-and-down. It's pretty beat up and I'm pretty beat up.

The Pack of motorcycles catches up and come to a stop along the highway and a few of the guys roll my bike off the road and immediately start fixing it back up. They wave the rest of the pack past to meet us at the bar. No worries.

They finished fixing the motorcycle, shoving a couple of bandanas into the gas tank and crank it up. It starts.

I am sitting on the ground 20 yards away with my back against rock looking down the cliff that I barely missed going over.

The biker boss comes over and kicks me in the foot and says “Your bike is running, let’s go.”

I grabbed my helmet put it on and slowly get up. My right arm doesn't seem to be working very well, I keep moving, get on the motorcycle and we start riding. We speed up to about the same speed as before.

Twenty miles later, we are at the bar, and the boss says, “you, you and you with me, we are going to ride through the bar.” He owns the bar, so no big deal for him. For us, we feel like we are in one of those movies from the sixties. One of those “Glory Stompers Movies.” We roll into the bar. It’s going nuts.

My arm is not working too good and I run into one of the pool tables and then bounce toward the door and jump my bike off the curb into the street. Everyone thinks I did it on purpose, and they are yelling big time. It was very cool, but I’m just thinking how lucky it was that I didn’t fall over.

I walk into the bar and ask for 5 shots of Jack. I gotta numb this arm up; its throbbing and getting more painful. I swig them all down.

This big biker dude, like 300lbs of “Hammer” and also a Vietnam medic says, “Hey Caveman, what the Hell’s wrong with your arm? Take off your jacket and let’s see what’s up.” I take it off, and he looks at it I says, “Holy fuck, your arm is dislocated. Get back there on the pool table; I’ll put it back in.”

I go back, lay on the pool table and sure enough the medic starts cranking on my arm and then – bam, a loud pop noise and its back in socket. It was loud enough that a few people stopped partying and looked over.

I sit up and start moving my arm around saying, “Man this feels good now, give me some more shots.”

The big boss comes over and says, “Holy shit you just road from the accident up the mountain with a dislocated arm.”

I just replied, “Yup, you kicked me in my broken foot and told me, Lets go.” He shook his head and said, “I don't know what to think about you SEAL team guys, but HELL YEAH.”

He gave me a cool biker poster later that day that says something about being “A hell of a man and a friend till the end.” Very cool ride, very cool day.

[rahirah]

via Barb's Place Inspection successfully concluded today. Closet is tiled and painted, and we've finished the modifications to the two shelving units and moved them into the closet. Next steps are to finish painting the rest of the bedroom (it's about half done now), and get the little wooden bracket things that will allow us to hang the clothes rods between the shelving units. (This is going to be a double-rod arrangement.) I'm going to put a center support in which will hold the rods up in the middle -- I have one of those circle saw drill bits which they use to cut holes for doorknobs, and I will use that to cut holes the the center support board, and the rods will thread through it. I'll cut and stain the center board tomorrow, and trim the ends off the rods -- they're just a skinch too long. (Which is infinitely better than being a skinch too short.) We'll have to run over to Lowe's for the brackets, though, and I don't know if we can get over there before the weekend. The last step is going to be putting together the shelf which will run across the top of the whole thing, from one shelving unit to the other. The shelving units are twenty inches deep, and they don't sell single boards which are twenty inches across. So I've got a 12'x8" board and a 12'x12" board, and I'm going to drill holes along one side of each, and use little pieces of quarter-inch dowel and lots of wood glue to peg them together. Then you clamp it till it's dry, and sand the hell out of the join. I've done this before when making shelves, but never with one so long -- it's going to be about eleven feet long when finished. Hopefully I can get the peg holes to align properly. If it works, we then nail the whole thing down to the top of both shelving units and the center support board, and we will have a custom closet installation! We're hoping to have it all done by the end of the long weekend, and then we can see about tiling the bedroom floor. comments

[runmilder]

Baldur’s Bane

AO3 link here

Chapters: 1 / 4 Fandom: DCU, DCU (Comics), Batman - All Media Types Rating: Mature Relationships: Tim Drake/Reader Tags: Mistletoe, vague sex pollen,  happy holidays from Poison Ivy

Summary:

The Poetic Edda has one thing right: mistletoe is a pain. The batboys and their mistletoe machinations.

There is no worse time to live in the city than during the holiday season. Traffic is more congested than usual, public transit is overcrowded with both travelers and their purchases, and outings have to be plotted with more precision than most military operations. And if the cutthroat soccer moms in retail lines aren’t brutal enough, there’s always an uptick in criminal activity, Gotham’s villains cooking up more than just Christmas ham.

And speaking of Christmas ham—

“Where are you?”

Your grocery bags leave angry stripes on your arms as you manage to adjust your phone between your ear and shoulder. Not for the first time, you consider going hands-free. You’re sure your boyfriend would hook you up with something considerably higher tech than a Bluetooth, though, so you don’t mention your struggle.

“Sorry?” you say, lifting one overburdened arm to plug your other ear.

“Are you home?” Tim sounds out of breath. “Please tell me that’s the television I hear in the background.”

You look around at the holiday crowds in the shopping center. “Um. It’s the television?”

Tim mutters something unintelligible. It might be a curse. “Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

You open your mouth to reply, any number of comments sitting on your tongue, but he’s already hung up. He always forgets the niceties when he’s stressed; you try not to take it personally. You also don’t bother to ask how he knows your location, instead staring down at the dark screen of your GPS-emitting phone with something akin to betrayal.

Hero-types. Honestly.

Though he instructed you to stay put, you’re sure Tim didn’t mean for you to stand in the middle of foot traffic, so you move off to the side. There’s a bench in sight of the complex’s garland-wrapped stairs and accompanying escalators, and you gratefully sit, bags splaying around you. Your arms protest the sudden return of circulation. Nothing in your immediate vicinity strikes you as alarming—other than the weirdly breathy rendition of Santa Baby playing over the loudspeakers—and you consider checking your news feed to see what has Tim in such a tizzy. Is it another mechanical Santa gone rogue? Are the roads being converted to ice rinks via freeze rays?

How soon does this food need to be refrigerated, anyway?

You have a Christmas potluck at work to prepare for, and then a few last-minute gifts to worry about purchasing before you can even think about settling back and enjoying the holidays. Just sitting here listening to increasingly bad covers of Christmas songs has you feeling antsy.

In your distraction, you almost don’t notice the creeping greenery.

There’s no shortage of people-watching to be done in the heart of Gotham, the city drawing people from all walks of life. You’re playing the old stand-by game, How Many Hero Shirts (twelve so far, and one shirtdress with bat symbol print,) and you can’t help but note that there’re a lot of handsy people out today. There’s a couple making out on the escalator, stumbling as their steps level out with the floor. Two others bump into a column near you, locked together in a passionate embrace. You’re starting to feel like a voyeur, actually, your eyes darting around to see more coat clad figures succumbing to… what? Holiday spirit? Where’s the sense of decorum?

Your eyes meet the scrunched gaze of a kid, probably eight or so, whose parents are getting a little too friendly nearby. Both of your expressions say the same thing: what the hell? Or, in his case, heck.

And then you see the mistletoe.

“Only in Gotham,” you mutter. There’s no one in hearing range (who isn’t otherwise engaged) to hear you let loose a string of colorful words, and you gather up your bags, heedless of Tim’s previous warning, and make toward the nearest exit. The greenery stretches along the walls and vaulted ceiling of the complex, spreading ever further even as you watch. The skylights are quickly being overtaken, the natural light choked out by waxy leaves. It’s unmistakably mistletoe, berries hanging in clumps of both red and white, although you’ve never heard of it growing as a vine. It’s beautiful… and ominous. Somehow, you don’t think the glimmering substance drifting off of the leaves like clouds of golden pollen is anything as innocuous as craft glitter.

Your nose itches, and you valiantly repress a sneeze.

There are other shoppers rushing past, and only some of them look aware of the possible danger. A pinch-mouthed woman with an oversized purse marches past, glaring at the living décor, and you realize that some of the pedestrians are just willfully ignorant. Apparently, some things are more important than Poison Ivy’s (because who else could it be?) newest gambit, although you can’t imagine what. Maybe Kirklands is having a sale.

A sudden tug scatters your thoughts of country chic bargains, and you’re dragged into an emergency exit hallway before you have a chance to protest.

“Sorry for the ambush, but we have to go.” It’s Tim. Of course it’s Tim.

You note that he’s in civilian clothes, eyes unmasked, and you open your mouth to question him, but he half-turns, looking around with suspicion, and you see a peek of red beneath his coat. Ah. You’d bet anything that if you checked his pockets right now, you’d find a domino mask.

“That’s awfully sloppy for you,” you tease, nodding to his outfit when he meets your gaze with a quizzical look of his own.

He looks down, then hastily buttons his coat.

“I didn’t exactly have time for a full costume change,” he says, mouth flat, but eyes crinkling up. He lifts your bags from bloodless fingers and jerks his head toward the glowing exit sign. You’d ask about the alarm on the door, but you’re almost certain that he came in this way.

“Are you going to or from an engagement?” You’re careful with your phrasing even when you think you’re alone; it never does to assume around here. Not when the walls have eyes and ears.

“I’m in the middle of an engagement,” he says, emphasis on “engagement.” He hoists the bags up higher, readjusting. “Did you buy rocks, by any chance?”

You trail behind, through the door and into a service alley. There’s a sleek car there, parked no-doubt illegally.

“They were on sale,” you say, rolling your eyes. “If you can’t handle them, I can take them off of your hands.”

The car’s tiny trunk pops open, the parcels quickly wedged inside. Tim turns with a tiny grin and a raised eyebrow. “I think I got it.”

“Baby.”

“Oh, are we doing pet names now?” His grin grows, widening to near shit-eating proportions. He leans against the rear bumper, keys spinning in his hand, and you want to wipe the self-satisfied look off his face.

Preferably with your face.

Something must show in your expression, because Tim’s smile flickers and he’s suddenly in your space, eyes shifting from warm to analytical. He reaches up and brushes your shoulder, and you glance in surprise to see a fine dusting of golden powder puff beneath his fingertips.

“Well,” you say, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat. “That’s… probably not good.”

Tim’s mouth is a hard line. “Nothing life threatening, but—” He rubs his fingers together, the dust dissipating. “I’m taking you home.”

You’re ushered into the low-sitting sports car, Tim sliding into the drivers seat a half second later. There’s no music to distract you from your growing anxiety, and no police scanner either. Tim, when you glance at him, looks distracted, though his eyes are on the road, and his driving smooth as he slips through traffic. Your eyes keep slipping to his mouth, and you berate yourself for it. You’re as bad as the shoppers in the—

Wait.

“Did Poison Ivy infect the city with sex pollen?”

Tim grimaces, eyes flicking to yours and then away. “”Sex pollen” is a bit of an overstatement. There’s certainly some kind of aphrodisiac element to the plants, but we don’t think it’s anything strong enough to break through preexisting reservations.”

“So people aren’t jumping each other in the street right now?” You look out of the window as if to check, but you’ve already passed the last of the spreading greenery. There were several blocks infested with it, though.

He looks uncomfortable. “I didn’t say that.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there?” Not that you aren’t thrilled to be out of the thick of it—who knows when the plants might start to choke their victims with something more than pollen—but your boyfriend is kind of an important person to the city.

“I was—actually, I was one of the first on sight.” He shifts in his seat, taking the turn into your apartment’s parking.

You stare at him.

“Are you—?” Realization dawns. “You weren’t wearing anything over your face.”

Tim parks the car, but leaves it idling. “…No.”

You lean over, turning his chin so that he’s looking you in the eye. His pupils are blown.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Like I said, nothing life threatening.” He shifts in his seat again. “Just—uncomfortable.”

You almost laugh, but—no, that would be mean. And frankly, hypocritical, because you’re feeling “uncomfortable,” too.

You regard each other for several breaths.

“Well,” you say at the same time Tim says, “Do you—?”

You both stop, and then, with a mental shrug, you decide to just go for it.

Your seatbelt clicks open with a startlingly loud crack, and you let it sling back toward the window even as you duck under the low roof of the car and shimmy over the console. It’s not a car designed for spontaneous lap-sitting, but you think you can make do. Tim, quick on the uptake, slides the seat as far away from the wheel as it will go—not very—and immediately brackets your hips with his hands.

“We could just go insi—” he starts, but you cut him off with a press of your lips. He doesn’t protest after that.

The angle isn’t great, and there’s a little movement as Tim tries to lean the seat back, but you ignore the twinge in your neck and move your mouth against his, his lips softening into compliance. You curl your fingers over his shoulder, your other hand traveling up to grasp dark strands of hair, drawing a little sound from him when you tug. You draw back and he reels you back in, one kiss turning into a flurry of not-quite closed mouth kisses. You breathe a sigh against him, happy to have him here, regardless of the circumstances, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding sweetly against yours.

You’re a little more frantic now, and a lot less reserved. The pace of your kisses quickens, your breaths coming in short pants. Beside you, the window is fogging. Tim’s hand slips beneath your shirt, palm like a brand over your spine. You shift, bringing your bodies closer, and your hips press into his, and oh—

“I think,” Tim rasps, breaking away with a gutted sound, “that we need to get out of this car before we get arrested for public indecency.”

You run your thumb over his lower lip, and he turns his head to nip at it.

“You want to do indecent things to me, Tim Drake?” You mean it to sound coy, but it sounds more like a plea.

Tim reaches behind you to open the door, his chest pressing against yours. Cold air rushes in, but that’s not what has you shivering.

“I have a list of indecent things I’d like to do to you,” he says in your ear. “Would you like to go alphabetically or chronologically?”

It’s probably the nerdiest dirty talk you’ve heard in your life, but you’re already clambering out, Tim hot on your heels.

“Oh!” you say, starting to turn. “The ham.”

Tim makes a sound not unlike a growl. “Forget the ham; you’re coming over for Christmas dinner.” His hand is on your lower back, already guiding you away.

You open your mouth to protest—it’s not for you, it’s for the potluck—but then his words sink in.

Coming over for—

Oh. He’s inviting you to the manor. With his family. Of superheroes.

You stumble up the stairs to your apartment in a sort of daze, but then you’re at the door, and Tim is commandeering your keys, bundling you inside, mouth on your neck, and then—

And then you don’t do much thinking at all.

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. I-U-D-Day

Thanks to my trusty uterus I have a new point of reference for answering the question, “Rank how you’re feeling on a scale of 1 to the worst pain you’ve ever experienced.” I’m all about girl power, but getting my IUD inserted was the *only time I’ve wished to be a dong-swinging member of the white man club (*with the exception of every other day since Trump has been elected). During the procedure all I could think was, “God if you exist, you will turn my axe wound into a sack, shrink my already non-existent boobs, and give me really strong uninformed opinions about what women can do with their bodies.” Alas that did not happen, and I walked out with the same flesh bag of organs and girly name Siri still cannot pronounce, with which I entered.

Ladies and fellas in the know, you can skip this paragraph, I’m just providing a little background on what an IUD is and does. So IUD stands for intrauterine device, and it’s a form of long term birth control. It gets pushed through the vagina, past the cervix, and resides in the upper part of the uterus where it can hang out for like 5-10 years, depending on which kind you pick. There’s some little strings at the end so when you’re ready to add something besides cats to your family, your doctor just pulls it out. It’s allegedly painless, like taking a command strip off the wall. No guys, you can’t hit it or move it with your dick. It’s so far up there you’d have to stop and ask for directions, and we all know you’re not going to do that. I could go into further detail, like how copper IUDs differ from hormone IUDs, but I’m not a doctor. Hell, I’m barely a functioning 26-year-old woman. It’s fucking absurd to me though, that someone invited this little sandwich garnish looking thing to prevent pregnancies, but Diet Coke slushies still aren’t a thing. 

A few of my girlfriends who already have them told me that getting an IUD will feel like a really intense pap smear (the test for cervical cancer). For those of you who don’t know what a pap smear feels like (male readers), let me explain it in terms you will understand. Remember middle school when you would put two Pringles in your mouth to look like a duck beak? Imagine those deliciously salty Pringles are made of the world’s coldest metal, and instead of being placed between your lips, they are cranking open your vag like it’s the goddamn Chamber of Secrets. Then the doctor pretends your cervix (that wall your Hulk-like dick can bump during drunk sex) is a cotton candy machine, and furiously swirls a cotton swap around like it’s closing time at the State Fair. 

The thing is, pap smears have never bothered me, so I thought this spawn-preventing installation was going to be easy as reciting the intro to “Law & Order: SVU.” My body has endured tattoos (*tattoo, if anyone in my family is reading this), Brazilian bikini waxes, and a few college hangovers so severe I prayed the grim reaper from Sims would show up at my door, leaving my spirit to haunt the frats who told me dancing on tables was only for hot girls. All of this resulted in the self-inflicted impression that I could stomach what looks like a weird Colgate flosser, being shot into my vacant (sigh of relief) baby apartment. I haven’t been so wrong since making my March Madness bracket and guessing who murdered Megan in “The Girl on the Train.” It’s like the physical personification of getting your cable and internet setup in a new apartment. 

It’s a different kind of pain, because it’s not topical like scraped knees from a blowjob on cement. It’s so deep inside you that it’s hard to tell what’s happening where. You just lay on your back with so many tools in one hole you feel less like a woman and more like a pencil holder. You’re not like, “Oh yeah, there it is, my cervix is being slowly pulled apart like the gooey center of a Chips Ahoy commercial.” You just feel general reverberating echoes and intense pressure in the form of knotting, burning, hard to exhale, cramping pain below your belly button but above where a porn star’s landing strip would end. In all the whole completely worth it affair only takes about 15 minutes, but not one of those minutes passed without my near certainty I was going to shit myself and pass out – not necessarily in that order. 

Gynecologists should take a page out of European Wax Center’s book and have their offices blast some Justin Beiber top 40′s bullshit to muffle the inevitable screams, or in my case repeatedly yelling “FUCK” at progressively louder volumes. It took all of what little self control I possess not to fold myself in half, cradle my womb like I’m Mary in a Christmas Eve nativity play, and sob apologies to my lower half. Your lady lining can get snagged, scratched, and scabbed resulting in some Boston Massacre-esque stains. They give you a pad so thick it looks like the nurses are just ripping out parts of the hospital’s insulation and telling girls to stick it in their underwear. So don’t wear leggings to your appointment unless you want to walk out with such an aggressive diaper booty it looks like you’re on your way to a Pamper’s audition. There’s also this super fun game you get to play for the next 48-hours that’s called, “Am I peeing iodine or did I shart?” Obviously take the day of the procedure off, and the next day if you can because 1. you deserve it, and 2. you can cry in the shower without time restraints. 

Horrible in-the-moment-pain and dramatic analogies aside, making the switch from the pill to an IUD was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. It’s been three days and I’ve already probably saved at least $100 from no longer stocking up on Plan B during my weekly grocery runs. Bread - check, eggs - check, milk - check, Option 2 (the cheaper Rite Aide brand morning after pill) - check. But seriously, jokes aside, it was liberating AF to delete my daily “no baby time” pill alarm clock. Plus, as an added bonus, I’ve already learned a lot more about what I’m capable of and how far I can push myself outside my comfort zone. For example, I can stick an entire heating pad in my pants. Until next time. 

[girlreadinginpublicspaces]

Why is everyone hanging out without me?

Dear Diary,

It’s hot out here. My t-shirt is sticking to my back. As I write this, a man walks by and leers at my front. The park is small; barely a kilometer wide, with its lawns trimmed low and the wilderness of its trees reigned in with the calculated measurements of the public park authority. The park is encircled with houses, beige and boring with their facades bearing down at us. By us I mean me, an idiot that decides to read under the sun right outside her air-conditioned house, and a couple of stragglers. And a maali (gardener) asleep in the middle of the park, under a bush, splayed out like a star.

I was alone at home. I sat at my desk for hours, staring at the fluorescent glow of my laptop screen with my mind buzzing with restlessness. Mum had left for a hi-tea party with my sister, leaving me at home to study. I was not able to socialize well anyway; I didn’t know which things young women spoke of anymore, or actually ever. I can’t relate to them.

After managing to squeeze out only a couple of words for an essay, I stepped out on to my terrace. The park was in view, vivid and green and dotted with pink flowers. I stared at it for a second, whispered “fuck it” under my breath, grabbed a couple of books and lugged them out there.

And here I sit, reading Suleri’s “Meatless Days”, occasionally glancing towards the men as they spin the empty merry-go-round, as their voices mingle with the distant sounds of traffic, as they trace circles into the soil…

I always thought of my world in circles. When I was ten I’d draw cartoons of people around me in bubbles, and me on the edges.  I could not access the centers of these spheres of belonging; the loci that connected others to its heart were broken off from me. I orbited the edges, existing in the grey areas between home and the outside world, collapsing into myself because my mind was the only circle I could exist in. My mind and the imagined realm of books because as I orbited the edges, the only connection I could comfortably have to the outside world was through books, my world was silent if not for the voices that whispered to half-torn pages, that spoke of distant pasts and faraway lands.  This world was then populated by wizards drawing wands, dragons that flew over the horizon, Dickensian slums where one could meet great expectations, where men fell from the sky and the grounds rose to meet them.

I was always at a distance from those around me; I felt a potent lack of intimacy towards people that were supposed to be close to me. I was chronically shy and could not bond with people as easily as my best friends and my sister. Hell, I couldn’t even interact with them, (picture Issa Rae but multiply that awkwardness by a hundred). I felt like I had relationships with only those who had to love me. My family thinks I grew up emotionally stunted and as a consequence I cannot do the emotional labor that women are often expected to do.

Adrienne Rich says that the first loci that define you is the geography of your body. My body, that is female, wrapped into hetero-normative discourses of gender was supposed to be woman. My interactions with others, those bonds defined by blood were to be produced through the emotional labor women are expected to do. Except when you’re chronically shy, mentally ill and a tomboy, the intimacy of women is not something you can partake in. The loci, the threads of womanhood, sisterhood, and family loosen then. You are on your own. I suppose my status as an outsider began because I was never part of the company of women.

The company of women according to Suleri, as she delineates what is excellent about women, seems to be these most significant bonds. That though there is “no word for women” in Pakistan, feminine existence is structured through these relationships. That while there is no conscious search for a discourse the idea of woman is communicable through the ordinary and every day, through the bathing of the injured grandmother that familiarizes you with the intimate fluidity of the body. Through the gentle press of fingers into silk as a sister’s veil is lifted up. Through the nestled head on a mother’s lap as she speaks of her own wedding. 

I suppose my hungering for literature arose from my need to formulate answers to questions of being, towards defining the self, the feminine, through one-sided conversations with other women that lived in abstraction, lived through their poems and their novels and their essays and taught me how to live. Reading became, as Proust says “that fruitful miracle of a communication in the midst of solitude.” Because the women physically present in my life were never truly connected to me. I could only form bonds of intimacy through the distance of literature, wherein the pages became a barrier between the author as the speaker and me as the listener.  Doing so in real life was always difficult.

When my grandmother passed away, I was 17. It was a Thursday and my first week at a new school. She was in the States visiting my aunt. Mum had forced her to go, her visa had been expiring, my aunts her other daughters hadn’t seen her for years, it would be good for her to travel, they’d pay for it, and they’d make sure she’ll be all right…

I knew mum regretted it. I think it magnified her grief, that sense of regret that she’d sent her to a foreign land in her last months. I saw it when her smile slipped as she received the phone call, hat her mother, the tiny wisp of a woman that brought down storms and empires and mountains... had collapsed. A stroke had paralyzed her, taken her life.

Mum got all of her things. After her body was brought back here and buried, my uncle came over with her suitcases, and her plants. My grandmother had had these plants for as long as I could remember, she raised them like they were her kids. Seeing them in her home was the moment I think when mum realized she was truly gone. She’d stay out on to the terrace with them continually, day in and day out.

 And reading Suleri, I was reminded of what loss was, what loss looked like, those vacant fingers tracing invisible words in the dark, preserving the memory of the object of loss. I remember mum on the terrace, with the plants whispering to them as my grandmother had, stroking them and staring off into the distance, towards places I couldn’t reach.  

I knew it, the face of grief. But I’ve never felt it. I think you can only feel it when you’re close to the person that has died. I was supposed to be close to her. My mum said that she practically raised me, and yet I never spoke candidly to her, told her about the bully that wouldn’t leave me alone, or the best friend that broke the bully’s nose, or that I loved painting sunset or that my favorite thing to do was to swing so high that the sun would close in and I’d feel like Icarus, but with the wings of wax turned to gold. I couldn’t tell her this because intimacy was a foreign thing from a foreign land. It was for those who remained in the company of women, who could grieve and love and speak to their mothers, sisters, aunts, friends, wives and friends. The lesbian continuum as Adrienne Rich calls it.

My sister does the emotional heavy-lifting at home, when someone is stressed she makes them tea, when someone gets married she can congratulate them easily when a stranger comes to visit she makes them feel less awkward and eases them into the spheres of belonging she exists in, expansive worlds where family and friends can share her mental and emotional spaces. I am closed off.  My father notices this. “Your sister is like the palm that lies open, ready to take in the world’s problems and its gifts, whether it’s a fistful of dew-streaked motia flowers (jasmines) or tax brackets tissues streaked with tears. You are the closed fist. Unclench it.”

I’d never been able to unclench that damned fist.

-H.