j is for jeopardy

They laid there, one of her legs sandwiched by one of his, one of his arms wrapped around her, one of her arms angled over his chest, her hand on his heart.

"I wanna see Italy," Reese said.

Isabel didn't reply right away. "I don't wanna go there."

"Italy?"

"Yeah."

"Why not?"

He felt her shrug a little. "It's just never really interested me all that much."

This surprised him. "Okay. What about France?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Doesn't interest me, either."

"Okay. So where would you go?"

"England, Ireland, Germany and Greece."

"Why there?"

"Their histories appeal to me."

"The violence in them?"

She hesitated. "No. That's not it."

"Then what?"

"Their passion."

He scoffed at that. "Italy and France lack passion." It was more a question than a statement.

"No. It's different." Her hand fluttered as though to dismiss it. "I want to see England's architecture--Westminster and the Courts of Justice, the Tower. Dickens' house. Shakespeare's. Its countryside. Ireland. Its fields and castles and coast. Germany. All of it. My dad was in Munich several years ago. He loved it. I want to see Dachau and the biergartens."

"You don't drink."

"You don't have to drink to appreciate a group of people sitting outside under the shade of some chestnut trees, everyone enjoying each others' company."

A smile flashed across his face. She could be so snippy sometimes. It amused him. Sometimes.

"Greece. The ruins. The sea. I'm fascinated by all of that stuff. I've yet to see or read anything of Italy or France that compels me to go there." She paused, then asked, "Where else would you want to go?"

"Australia, New Zealand and Russia."

"I'd go to New Zealand with you."

"Yeah? I'd go to Germany with you."

She yawned, started drawing circles on his chest with her index finger. "So what else is on your list?"

"Get a house. Fix it up. Have my own studio. Take a road trip across the U.S., one up the Pacific coast, one up the Atlantic coast." He'd been stroking her arm, sort of absentmindedly. "Get married. Have a couple of kids."

Her fingers stilled, flattened. She splayed her hand over the center of his chest.

His hand kept moving, back and forth, over her forearm. "Nothing like my parents. I don't want a family that big. Two. Maybe three. It'd be nice if at least one of'm were a boy. But I'll take what I can get." He glanced down at her. "What about you? What's on yours?"

She didn't speak.

"Isa?"

Silence, then she cleared her throat. "Finish my book. Travel the U.S."

"Well, maybe we could take a road trip this summer. We could travel up California's coast. I've never seen it."

"I have." It was almost a whisper.

"How long ago?"

She drew in a breath. "Nine. No, ten years ago." Her voice was somewhat shaky.

He didn't notice. "So you won't mind seeing it again."

"No."

"Then we'll do that. Maybe go up to Oregon and Washington State, too, if we have time, plan the trip right."

"Maybe."

This got his attention. "Isabel? What's the matter?"

She shifted, untangled herself from him. Sat up. "I'm not..." Shook her head. "Be right back."

(c) twenty-twelve. jennifer k. griffin, otherwise known as c.c. this publication is the exclusive property of c.c. and is protected under the united states copyright act of nineteen seventy-six and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. the contents of these posts, and any other c.c.-crafted picky post for that matter, may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without c.c.'s consent. all rights reserved.

in other words, steal this, and i will follow you to the depths of hell and the edge of forever and kick your puny, thieving ass. thanks. :]

read about the rest of the gang here.

this was a matlock project. learn about that here.

all i ever learned from love

but all i ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya (leonard cohen, as sung by jeff buckley in hallelujiah).

(nobody sings that song better, by the way. nobody.)

imagination only gets you so far. you ride the rest of the way on the tide of experience.

below is the best example of my experience. this is what love has taught me.

drain
the structure outside in the park reminds me of a whirlpool, of you, of drowning, of lying on your sofa with your arms around me, your legs entwined with mine, your words beating on, then breaking my happy, idyllic bubble, sinking me, my
tears leaking onto your shirt, mopped up with your tissue. a boy whizzes past on his skateboard. the wheels over the concrete sound like water down the drain. there i go. there we go. but everything goes on around me, just as it had
seconds before, reminding me that this was years ago and not yesterday, that i have resurfaced. memories of you pull me
back under, but not as deeply as before, and not nearly as long
there’s laughter, squeals, joy in almost everything. a
girl hangs upside down and
grins. i watch
from inside
and
wish.

this is what my childhood taught me.

that one was taught at a catholic school by a sour-faced, plain and unremarkable woman. the only concrete memory i have of her is that she wore the black and white headpiece of a nun's habit atop her straight, chin-length, dry, dirty blonde hair.

my mother says this teacher placed me in a cardboard box.

i've no memory of this. i can, however, recall feeling segregated.

i can also recall the day we'd made valentines for our classmates. first we decorated those plain brown paper lunch bags and placed them on our desks. these were for the valentines we received.

and then we made valentines (or filled in the to/from on our storebought ones) for our classmates.

i remember that my peers' bags were stuffed with cards.

i remember that mine was not. in fact, mine was practically (if not) empty.

thirty years have passed since this.

and i feel as unlovable now as i did then.

i suppose that's my fault.

i'm not afraid to say it. i'm a firm believer in that if you have a thought, you speak it. because holding on to it, letting it fly around such limited space in such protected air, that's not being true to the thought. speak it and be done with it. no matter how heinous and hurtful the thought could be.

i've been called sir more than i've been called ma'am. most people who have committed this infraction (and it is an infranction ... not only are you not seen as a woman, but after closer inspection, you're found to be an ugly woman. and all this does is separate the parties. i've been looked upon as though i am lesser because of my face.

i've learned enough,  gone to enough bars and such that i can see who's interested in whom and who's interested in him or herself.

take this date, for example, that a friend of mine witnessed at some taqueria (that it's at a taqueria should tell you alot about the thing from the get-go).

and the lady--who is the avatar of geek hot, speaks arabic and spanish, and has a great sense of humor--is clearly more interested than the dude. she keeps flirting and asking engaging questions...

...and he keeps playing with his phone and talking about his house, and past vacations with other girls. and he hasn't asked her. one. single. question.

a barkeep asked me why i didn't flirt with a guy a little. ask him out. i said, i'm tired of having to do the asking. it's his turn.

i've made these four couples, and they will find success. i've made them pretty. i've made them with at least one redeeming quality apiece.

the basic bones of the story are there.

i know crushed and anxious and overwhelmed. i don't need helping writing those things. i've got'm down. really, really well.

so this is what i suggest.

i need to know joy. that time when you like every single thing about that person because neither of you have opened the dungeons yet.

i don't remember that point in things from my experiences. not well enough to write them.

if you bother to read this malaigned post (most of which was written as the ambien kicked in--i've been pretty sick and haven't been sleeping well), and feel compelled to contribute to the creative process at all (PLEASE) ...

leave a comment telling me about a cool thing that you and your guy/gal did. a nice conversation. good quality time. that sort of thing.

a long, long while ago, i asked for bad date stories. now i want the good ones.

so go ahead. brag a little. thanks.

like dust and dirt to a swiffer

so i took ten days off from target. and then i took ten days off from pottery barn kids. so i was working, but not nearly as hard as i had been, which gave me more time to write and sleep and do nothing, all of which was very nice.

yesterday, on my second day back at pbk, i noticed we had a new rug hanging on the rack. two actually. one has little roads and houses and all kinds of cool stuff on it. perfect for playing cars. and i was all wide-eyed and thinking how cool is that!

and then i saw this one;

HOW COOL IS THAT!!!

i want it. i want it bad.

and so there i was, standing right next to it, my hands splayed over it, my eyes huge and giddy, and i'm staring in very apparent glee at my coworkers who were manning the registers, busy with customers. who were working rather than ogling the merchandise and acting psychotic.

if only i had a house. there'd be an entire room tricked out in star wars paraphernalia, i tell you. an entire room.