Trembling fingers dial grimy numbers on a pay phone that has seen countless hands the same way before. Cradle to ear, tongue licks lips chapped with dozens of spent words. Angry words, bitter words, curses, pleas, and assurances. Hand runs through tangled hair only just pulled back into a braid, a let's-get-to-work kind of style.
Hands hesitate at first over the smudged numbers, pressed only from memory and not from sight. Fingers want to dial that Old Familiar number and fall into deep reassurances and dark memories that have wrapped around her tightly before.
But not this time.
Comfortable and Nice drove her around in old cars and went to pleasant movies and on long hikes. There was always something Comfortable and Nice in the cold beers and late-night movie marathons. And then she always had Support when things fell apart into too many pieces and she cut her hands trying to put them together again. Support always had bandages and gentle kisses on palms to take away the sting.
But battered thoughts stumbled into Fleeting Glances and swept her off her feet in moments stolen and unreal. Looming, always thoughts of leaving and knowing that she would never really know. Still, glancing back Old Familiar had a way of stealing new moments and she let down her hair because that was how it was.
She never expected to leave Old Familiar and fall into dark tattooed arms. Arms that beckoned and lips that promised to keep her warm at night for a while. It happened right after she tied off her braid and picked up her backpack, packed with resolve and an ipod of rock music that keeps her going when she runs. Heart hurt a little but was too jaded to cry about it.
Wooed by words Beautiful and Sexy and Capable, maps veer off in different directions when compass still points ever North. She always loved dark and dancing eyes.
Now braid is loose and tangled, hanging down her back like a defeated banner of war. Hand presses over face as ringing echoes in her ears, tenuous connection to the only one that remains.
She wants Daring Adventure she has only known over airwaves
and penned phrases and who is now worlds away from her. He told her to
keep in touch. And somewhere out in the wide world is that one letter
she never knew if he received. And now he's left and she has only a
few lines dashed hurriedly on a page to trace to him, like a line of
string in a dark cave. She knows words will stack up in an empty mailbox
forever, even if he does find his way home. Adventure is still and
always will be eluding her, like trying to catch a moth in hands with no
net.
Line cuts out with no connection and phone is back in cradle. Phone spits back unspent coins like mockery in her face and scarred and calloused hand slips them back in pocket.
Head against dirty pane of phone booth, she sighs. Head knows she shouldn't be surprised but heart can't fight it. Hope has a way of spearing into jaded thoughts like a dagger to flesh. A dangerous and painful feeling that sometimes can't get a foothold and fails again. But always reappears. She knows it will return again when the Next One comes around. Always she tries to push them away but finds painted lips agreeing to try again. Even if just to share warm comfort in hot mugs of coffee for a few hours.
Stepping out of the phone booth, arms wrapped tightly around her, eyes raise up to crying sky. And she thinks that somewhere out there or up there is Daring Adventure. Just maybe not the one she always imagined. And maybe not yet. But it will come. And it will be hers.
