I was standing on a corner watching a store burn. It was a small independent toy store. I'm not sure how it caught on fire - maybe Barbie shoved Ken into an Easy Bake Oven - nonetheless, there it was. The small brick building with a huge glass front set alight.

I can't help but imagine the teddy bears crying and screaming; Tickle Me Elmos shaking in nervous fits of laughter; Scooby-do figurines hollering "Zoinks!"

Who would set a fire in a toy store? Maybe the owner just couldn't sell another Beenie Baby and doused them all with gasoline. Maybe he couldn't pay for the last shipment of Harry Potter toys and needed the insurance money.

Drew

"Drew'll be here in an hour," Peri said into the phone.

"How do you feel about that?" Linda asked.

"Apprehensive. He's called me at least ten times today. I guess I just don't understand the Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Jackass routine. He's my best buddy here. We do everything together. In the city, he treats me like I'm a whore - flashing his money around, hitting on waitresses, buying me expensive gifts like I suddenly give a shit about money."

"Yeah. That was pretty fucked up."

"We'll just have to see what's up. Furthermore, I haven't told him I'm sick."

"Oh shit."

"No man ever reacts well when you tell them you've had part of your genitalia removed. You might as well tell 'em you had a lobotomy."

"He might like that. Call me as soon as he leaves."

A night with Cancer

Peri came back from the bar only to face the first dose of chemotherapy.

She'd put on a brave face for the friends who know and pretended stage 0 cervical cancer didn't exisit for the people who didn't need to know. She'd been offered several drinks from friends; however, she could only picture the pill bottles lining her kitchen counter.

One pill to save her already fragile cervix and vagina, one to help with pain, several different vitamin supplements, immune system boosters, and the all important goo - a concoction of medicine and chemo drugs, about the consistency of rich lotion, inserted near the afflicted area.

Peri stared at the bottles. Will I ever have children? How many other women have to suffer this indignity? Will this be my last time dealing with this stupid disease? What will I feel like in the morning? Will I be able to work in two days considering I haven't told my boss what's up? Will I ever want a man to touch me again after inserting toxins directly into the object of their desire?

These swirling thought were enough to make anyone go mad. She downed the pills with a swig of water, suffered the goo and hoped to fall asleep before any of the pain began. She picked up the latest Nicholas Sparks romance to lull her into sandman's land. Huxley's Brave New World would have to wait for another day.

I try to pass on old ways all at once; however, it’s hard. Sitting at the bar watching all those around me fill up with liquid love and I burn for a martini. Yet, I need to avoid love. I need to heal the loves that have already passed through my heart. Move on from the past. Heal the hurt and broken heart before I can seek another: too many years of denying the pain, too many nights in tears.

Where does one find love? I can't imagine another day spent in unhappiness stemming from the bottom of a cocktail: too many cocktail hour heartaches. I want a love without a bottle.

Dancing around my small apartment by myself, listening to Dire Straits. No one in particular in mind, just missing someone to put their hand on the small of my back and reassure me that tomorrow will be better. I feel like a little girl in Mommy's clothes dreaming of my wedding dance with Mr. Right.

You and me, Babe ... How 'bout it?

She remembered the wind.

Skittering in the far reaches of her mind were other memories: Sunday mornings with chess and coffee, Lady Day and white wine, cigarettes and bourbon.

Lara woke with a start. A remembered dream: Nate, a telephone, water under the bathroom door. Lara ran her hand over the Egyptian cotton sheets on the other half of the king size bed. With Nate gone she now slept across the top of the bed, nestled against the pillows. Lara wondered if she'd ever sleep properly again or share this bed.

Written on my hand this morning when I woke up:
I don't know what to do.
I hate me. I hate cancer.
I love men in sweater vests.

I am shivering from loneliness - what shakes me is the weeping I conceal, weeping over another day when time will simply drain away, a river without water, just a dried riverbed full of sharp stones.

Went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and loved it but then again I'm a sucker for Tim Burton, Danny Elfman and Johnny Depp. But more than anything I am in love with Freddie Highmore.

Thank God Marily Manson didn't get the part of Willy Wonka, but in a weird twisted way he would have been perfect.

This was one of Danny Elfman's more brilliant scores, plus he performed all the Oompa Loompa songs. I guess all those years with Oingo Boingo paid off.

I feel like I'm living in a Sarah McLachlan song.

One major love. An untimely death. Years of grief. Years of healing. Only to be disappointed by every man that enters my life. This past six months has been enough to cause anyone to lose faith in love. It doesn't help that I'm a hopeless romantic.

I don't make comparisons. I just miss Sean.

Someone who loves me for all my faults and scars. Someone who will hold me when the night terrors rock me awake. Someone who isn't afraid of passion, afraid of living, afraid of being loved unconditionally. Willing to play a supporting role when the muse is speaking to me.

This sounds like a Depeche Mode song. As it should, Sean used to sing it to me:

I want somebody to share / Share the rest of my life / Share my innermost thoughts /Know my intimate details / Someone who’ll stand by my side / And give me support / And in return She’ll get my support / She will listen to me / When I want to speak / About the world we live in /And life in general / Though my views may be wrong / They may even be perverted / She’ll hear me out / And won’t easily be converted / To my way of thinking / In fact she’ll often disagree / But at the end of it all / She will understand me

I want somebody who cares / For me passionately / With every thought and / With every breath / Someone who’ll help me see things / In a different light / All the things I detest / I will almost like / I don’t want to be tied / To anyone’s strings / I’m carefully trying to steer clear of / Those things / But when I’m asleep / I want somebody / Who will put their arms around me / And kiss me tenderly / Though things like this / Make me sick / In a case like this / I’ll get away with it

Peri crawled out of bed wondering if she was doomed to repeat the failings of her father - alcohol. She'd drowned herself in chardonnay too many times. Wine had talked too much last night, alcohol went looking for forgivenness. The only forgiveness she needed was from herself not a man. She'd done nothing wrong and now that was confirmed.

It was yet another morning she promised herself she was done drinking. Too many midnight scandals found in the bottom of a bottle.

Peri was eight the day she’d met Harriet. She was a wrinkled black lady perched high in her motorized wheelchair with a white pill box hat held tight against silver hair.

Harriet was the sage of Cherry Blossom Nursing Home, offering nuggets of wisdom that often sounded like prophesy.

Peri’s step-dad was the head of maintenance at Cherry Blossom and had been called about a waterline break during the night. Mom was working graveyard. Thus, Peri had to be carted along.

The night nurses were entertaining Peri with dolls made out of tongue depressors and cotton balls, when Harriet rolled up beside her and grasped her tiny hand. Peri was frightened but had been taught not on be rude to elders.

“You must be Larry’s daughter,” Harriet said voice drawling with Louisiana roots.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Is there something in my hair?” Peri began stroking her blonde locks. Even at eight she’d been quite high-strung about her hair.

“No, child,” Harriet laughed tossing her head back. “I wanted to tell you a bit of advice someone told me when I was your age. I followed it and I couldn’t have been happier.” She paused looking over both her shoulders. “You gotta marry a man that loves to eat and loves his mama. If he loves to eat, you’ll keep him happy. If he loves his mama, he’ll keep you happy.”

Marc: Have you ever been in love?

Peri: Yes.

Marc: When was the last time?

Peri: This morning.

Marc: Really?

Peri: I fall in love with every day and with everyone. This morning Declan ate my flower beds.

Marc: That's a good thing?

Peri: Yeah, It looked like his fur had been planted with begonias.

I resent the man that feels the need to pick up my pieces. I don't need a man on a white horse. I wouldn't mind a man in BMW.

Bobby had seen Peri at her worst - the days when widow was a new word and a new concept. She was living out of her car, showering at campgrounds, and eating nothing. Today, she was healed and stronger because of her struggle.

Bobby wanted her to be broken again so that she needed him. He knew that was the only way he could remain in her life. The only thing he had to offer was salvation; Peri was now her own saviour and a guardian for others. She hated everything Bobby represented: the past, Iowa, insanity, and need.

I resent the man that feels the need to pick up my pieces. I don't need a man on a white horse. I wouldn't mind a man in BMW.

Bobby had seen Peri at her worst - the days when widow was a new word and a new concept. She was living out of her car, showering at campgrounds, and eating nothing. Today, she was healed and stronger because of her struggle.

Bobby wanted her to be broken again so that she needed him. He knew that was the only way he could remain in her life. The only thing he had to offer was salvation; Peri was now her own saviour and a guardian for others. She hated everything Bobby represented: the past, Iowa, insanity, and need.