Six Sentence Sunday

This is the first six sentences from the memoir I am writing about getting knocked-up...Enjoy.

The television was watching me.  The blaring music and studio audience laughter in my room could not drown out the chaos in my head.  America’s Funniest Home Videos could not shake my pinned attention.  I love a good elderly-people-falling-down-while-dancing-at-weddings montage as much as anyone but not even the zaftig lady in the blue dress flapping the chicken dance was going to pull my focus.  Instead I pulled from the bottle of Pinot Noir then from a half-lit joint.  My denial was in full swing.  All aboard the denial train!  

The missing of you...

I stood in the cold.  The air was biting and the wind harsh.  But I had to watch him.  He was wearing jeans, work boots, a bulky sweatshirt and a baseball cap.  His back was to me but I could see he was the same height and build as you.  And when he turned his head slightly to the right I saw your profile.

Is it you?  Could this all have been a stunt?  A joke?  Your back was to me again and I’m forced to stare at the back of your baseball cap.  Turn…dammit…turn.  You are diligently laboring…trying to install a sign at the entrance of a parking garage.  It could be you.  You build things.  You install things.  

Every second that passes my heartbeat quickens with the anticipation of you showing your face.  A face that I’ve only been able to look at in pictures or clouding memories.  I want to see your face… please turn.  It’s been so lonely here…so dull…so painful.  I will forgive you anything if it was all a ruse…I don’t care.  Just turn around and be you.

My breath is caught when you turn to walk toward me.  It is not you.  Just an older, awkward, less beautiful version of someone I once knew.  My heart broke again because I realized I was actually waiting for you.  In that moment my hopes were so high that when they were dashed to the ground by reality tears effortlessly rolled down my cheeks.

And so begins the missing of you again.