*The One That Got Away*

Once upon a time I had friends, best friends. But after we graduated high school God cast us far and wide. He flicked his wrist hard and we scattered like so many Pick Up Sticks. None of us touched after that, not geographically anyway. Hefty phone bills and first jobs out of college widened the distance between us, and eventually, marriages and babies. So then what? We had to find new gal pals. But it had gotten harder. Since we weren't spring chickens anymore.  Since everyone we met was so daggone busy. Even so, we didn’t have a choice, did we?

~~~

“Do you wanna be best friends? Just you and me? Do ya, do ya? Huh, huh?” 

 I didn’t answer right away. Didn’t look at her either. Instead I fiddled with the snaps on my daughter’s onesie. Pretended to give my friend privacy while she nursed her baby. Her question surprised me. Made me feel claustrophobic. Like if I said yes, it would be me and her in a Jif jar with a lid on and a cotton ball soaked in nail polish remover. 

I turned away slightly and cupped my hand to push air in my mouth.  And then she moved. Far away.

~~~

“Guess what?” my best-friend-first-through-twelfth-grade said when I answered the phone. “I have unlimited long distance calling now. We can talk like, every day.” 

And we did for awhile. Till I blew it. We got in this tiff, of all things, about her religion and my faith. When she said that one thing just so, I was pretty sure it was over. I heard the word never come out of my mouth even though my personal philosophy is never say never. 

She fell silent and Iwatched our friendship, like an egg, roll across a surface that wasn’t level, but tilted ever so slightly downhill. 

~~~

Soon after, I met another woman, at my son's pre-school. She had the best cheekbones ever but something shadowed her. All the time. One day I figured out what it was—fear. Eventually I got used to it—her scaredy-cat aura. And actually, it seemed to lessen the more we hung out.

 As our kids got taller, we grew closer. At one point though, in my mind, I pretended to be a traffic cop. I extended my arm, flexed at the wrist. Stop. Don’t come any closer. ‘Cause I don’t think we have enough in common. 

See, she didn’t paint her nails, wear lipgloss, or love shoes. I could tell her anything but somehow that didn't seem like enough. We telephoned and emailed a whole lot, but I knew even if she didn’t, that I’d put SaranWrap around my heart.

She moved away, just for a year, but still . . . 


               A     L   O   N   E   (L   Y)    N E   S   S


The just-you-and-me gal visited the other day. We sat side by side on the sofa. 

You’re more like me than anyone I know, I said inside my head.

 I grinned as my kids laughed with hers. Only thing is,  you don’t wear mascara.

 She hugged me as we stood beside her car. “It’s like I never left.”

I stepped back and nodded. Waved as they drove away.  Ask me that question again. I’ll say yes this time.

~~~

When we found out my pa-in-law had super bad cancer, I phoned my best friend from childhood.

“Tell me all that stuff you do again,” I said. “The natural, organic, herbal, and homeopathic stuff.” 
                “Really?”  

I nodded. “Really.”

And she did. Things got better after that. In fact, we're almost back to the place we were before. There’s still a creek that divides the lands of my belief and hers, but after six years, the bridge is coming along nicely. 

~~~

I threw a welcome-home-unload-the-U-Haul party when my one friend moved back. Despite phone calls, emails, and texts (and not having enough in common), I missed her. A whole lot. As I walked up her driveway I wondered if she’d be able to tell the difference in me.  How the SaranWrap around my heart had disappeared.

The List

What was that?  I turned the volume down on my car stereo.  Listened.  Nothing.  I checked the rearview mirror.  Blue and red lights flashed.  I stuck my lower lip out.  Again?  Twice in one day?  Dang!  After I pulled over, I rolled down my window and stuck my head out. 

"Is that you, sweet boy?"

The officer squinted, then grinned as he walked toward me.

"Aw.  I'm sorry, m'am.  I didn't see it was you."

I looked up at him.  "I have my driver's license with me now, but I still don't have my registration sticker on.  It's not  my fault though.  It's--"

He held  up his hand.  "I know.  Never is."

I laughed.  "You don't know what I was going to say."

He rolled his eyes.  "What were  you going to say?"

"I was gonna say, it's my husband's fault."

He shook his head.  "I don't know much, ma'am, but I do know blame shifting isn't good for a marriage."

I huffed.   "You're telling me how to do marriage?" I said.  "How old are you?"

His mouth fell open, and he shut it.  "I'm--"

I opened my car door and climbed out.  "That does it.  Now I have to tell you a story."

He glanced back at his cruiser.  "I don't know.  I'm on traffic detail.  I've got a quota and--"

I swatted at the air in front of him.  "Quota.  Shmota," I said.  I pointed to the curb.  "Have a seat."

I leaned in my car window and got a notebook and pencil out of my totebag.  I walked over and sat beside him.  I opened the notebook to a fresh page and drew a line down the middle.

"You married?"

He wiggled his wedding band with his pointer finger.  "Yes'm."

"What's your name?"

"Michael."

"Does your wife call you Mike or Michael?"

"Either.  Or Mickey."

I nibbled the pencil eraser.  "I like Michael.  Sounds handsome.  Strong.  And you are."

I wrote Michael at the top of the left column.

"What's your wife's name?"

"Cynthia.  Or Cyndi."

I printed Cynthia over the right column.  I laid my hands on the notebook and turned so I could look him in the eye.

"I'm going to tell you my marriage theory.  You ready?"

He nodded.

"Now, Michael, whether they know it or not, every bride and groom carries a milk crate of expectations down the aisle at their wedding.  A honey-do list for the other person.  Let's start with you.  What do you want, or expect, from Cynthia?"

Michael stared at the tree across the street.  My eyes followed his gaze.  The leaves were half green, half gold.  Fall's almost here. 

"Let's see.  Cook dinner.  Do laundry.  Keep the house nice."  He counted on his fingers.  "Stuff like that."

I jotted his items under Cynthia's name.  "And what do you think she wants from you?"

Michael's eyes narrowed, and his mouth pulled to the side.  "Fix broken things.  Change lightbulbs.  Take the garbage out."

I handed him the notebook and pencil.  "Write those under your name."

When he finished, I reached across him.  "It's too short. Here, let me."

I wrote on his side.  Yard work,  removal and/or burial of dead critters (bugs or animals), car issues. 

Michael reached for the pencil.  "May I?"  I handed it back to him.

He scribbled at the bottom of Cynthia's column.  Pay bills, make appointments, remember my mom's birthday.

I grinned.  "You've got the hang of this, don't you?"

"Yeah," he said.  "I see what you're saying."

I  held the list at arms' length so we could both read it.  "Now, Michael.  This is the list.  The Boy and Girl List.  In order for a marriage to work, you need to know what your spouse wants and expects of you, and vice versa.  Believe me, when either of you slacks on your list, sooner or later, there's gonna be trouble."

I tapped the Michael side of the paper with the pencil.  "Now, tell me why my out of date registration sticker is not my fault."

He scanned the list.  "'Cause anything to do with cars is on the Boy List." 

I chuckled.  "That's right."

Michael stood.  "How many years you been married, ma'am?"

He held his hand out to help me up. 

"Twenty," I said.

"Then this list thing really works."

I nodded as I tore the page out and handed it to him.  "I think so."

He folded it up and tucked it in his breast pocket.  "Awesome.  Thank you, ma'am."

He started to leave, and I tapped him on the shoulder. 

"One more thing," I said when he turned back.  "Let me tell you one more thing that'll make your wife really happy."

His eyebrows went up, and he caught his lower lip with his top teeth.  I felt my cheeks burn. 

"Come on now.  I'm not gonna talk about that," I said.  "I hardly know you.  What I was gonna say is, do stuff on her list."

He squinted.  "But--"

I lifted my chin.  "Trust me," I said.  "Nothing says I love you more than my husband doing the dishes."

Michael's brow furrowed.  I lifted my hair and let it fall behind my shoulders.  "Just try it."

Michael headed for his car.  He waved before he got in.

I rolled my fingers.  "Guess what I'm gonna do now?"

He shrugged.

I opened my car door.  "I'm gonna go home and put my registration sticker on my license plate.  Oh, and Michael?  Cologne."

It took him a minute, but then he let out a belly laugh.  "Have a good day, ma'am.  And thanks."

A Prince of a Guy

Some gal wrote a book that says every girl wants to be swept off her feet.  Rescued.  A bride.  But I never did. 

There's a picture of me when I was little.  In a dress-up wedding gown.  At a toy ironing board.  My mom must have made me do it.  Must've tickled me at the last minute to make me smile like that.  That was never my dream.  I was like the dentist elf in Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.  I wanted to be in-de-pen-dent.  I didn't need anybody.  Least, that's what I used to think.


Martin Luther King introduced me to you.  See, his birthday was on a Monday.  That meant an extra night to get dolled up, belly up to the bar, and shake a leg.

I always told my girlfriends, "You'll never meet Mr. Right in a bar."  Like I knew.  Heck, I could practically count the dates I'd been on with five fingers.  For some reason, guys seemed to be scared of me.  Maybe 'cause I could hit hard and burp long and loud.  That's what happens when you grow up with three older brothers.

But I wasn't with my girlfriends that night.  I was with my buddy, Dave.  We were both on the prowl for guys to dance with.  He and I spotted you at the same time, through a Kool and Camel haze, through the Purple Rain. 

You had a puffy half smile.  Lips like Angelina Jolie before anyone knew who she was.  And a pencil-thin moustache.  Your eyes were the color of Kraft caramels but I couldn't tell 'til we slow danced.  Your hair was almost ebony and looked like it had been curled around a popsicle.  You were dressed up.  Had a skinny leather tie on and everything.  Dave and I thought that was neat.  Way better than a t-shirt and Levi's.

I wrote my phone number on a Dolly's cocktail napkin with a chubby, aqua, Maybelline eyeliner.  Tuesday day and night came and went.  Then Wednesday day.  I was looking up your number in the phone book when you called.  My heart forgot to beat, then remembered.


We went out a couple of times and I decided you were some kinda fairy tale prince.  You opened and closed doors for me.  You always smelled nice when you reached across to buckle my seatbelt.  I liked the citrusy freshness of Drakkar Noir as it came off your warm golden neck in waves. 

You picked McDonald's cups off the sidewalk and put 'em in garbage cans.  Helped little dowager-humped ladies cross Walnut Street.  You did what you said you were gonna.

But then you didn't kiss me on the first date.  Or the second.  I got to thinkin' maybe you weren't a fairy tale prince.  Maybe you were just a  . . . .  And then you did kiss me, and once again, my heart forgot to beat, then remembered. 

It was cold in the hallway of my third floor, over Rite-Aid on High Street, apartment.  I was leaning against a door frame and you were saying maybe we should see . . . Then the warmth of you pressed against the warmth of me and it was so very nice I thought my knees would give out, right then and there.  It was just like the ketchup commercial said.  You know . . . anticipation. 

You coulda asked me anything  and I woulda said yes.  But you didn't.  'Cause you're a gentleman.  That's what happens when you grow up with four older sisters. 


You wanted to marry me even though I wanted to leave West Virginia and never come back.  Even though I didn't want kids.  Even though I didn't need you.

We closed our eyes and stabbed a map and that's where we moved.  In Cincinnati, I worked and you worked.  Then I said, "Well, I reckon I can have one baby.  For you." 

A couple years later you made me cry when you said, "I wanna move back to West Virginia."  And I said, "Don't you remember me saying I'm a big city girl?"  You held my face in your hands and said, "If you hate it after a year, we'll go someplace else."  I knew you always kept your promises, so I said okay. 

Not long after that, I decided the first baby needed company.  Then a few years later, I got the notion that you should have a son.  Funny thing.  The way having kids can stir up things inside you. 

When my childhood caught up with me, you held the sharp shards of my broken littleness in your hands.  You didn't flinch.  Your eyes didn't bug out.  You said, "There, there.  Everything'll be all right."  And it was. 

And then one day. when I was all alone in our hundred year old house, I held my thumb and pointer finger in front of my eyes.  They were almost touching.  And I whispered, "This much.  I might just need you this much."