Washed Away

January, and as you would expect. The sharp and biting cold. The blue and clear sky and iced over snow. A nice day, but suicide to step out and enjoy it.

I walked across the Stewart's parking lot, wind rushing up to greet me. It pulled at my hood and forced its way down into my jacket, my skin, my bones. Miserable fucking beautiful day.

I had to work tomorrow and it was all I could think about. I had a suspicion that this was my last week there. Maybe next to last, but it was coming either way. A boreing sense of failure and panic, but relief swirled around my legs like knee deep water. The condecension. The infuriating beauracracy. Relief like knee deep water. Flowing and rising and a moment was coming when it would wash over me entirely before washing back out, leaving me only with the failure and panic. 

I had applied to other orgs and had interviews and I was certain I'd land on my feet, but the thought of it sat in me. The thought of what I dreamed this job would be when it was first offered to me. I think that that's what really got to me. The death of the dream. The plain and clear facade of it, sunbleached and rotting. 

Stewart's was filled with bundled and tight people. Some sitting at tables staring and talking to each other about whatever it is old and persistent men talk about. Some filling paper cups with coffee and cream and sugar, stirring and trying desperately not to spill it while they pressed the plastic lids over the paper rims. Kids walked quickly up and down the aisles of candy and chips, around the back to the coolers, and over again. I remember being a kid and doing the same. Aimless. Bored. Alive. I grabbed a bag of gluten free trail mix from an endcap and walked to the register. A man stood near it but didn't seem to be in line. Just... standing. I noted a level of impatience in my stomach somewhere and set the trailmix on the counter. Another new clerk rinsed out a coffee pot behind the counter. Every week lately, new clerks. He finished and walked around the barrier, picked up my trailmix, scanned it and without looking said 

"That gonna be it?"

"Yeah. That's it."

"Go ahead and insert your card."

Slipped my card into the machine and followed the prompts. It beeped, I took my card out.

"You're all set," he said.

"Have a good one, man."

My father used to say it. 'Have a good one.' Lots of people did, sure, but I remember being a kid and hearing him say it. Leaving his friend's houses after hours of watching him smoke weed and play cards in some lair or living room. 

Have a good one.

Always made me feel like I did back then. Hateful. Disappointed. Invisible. It was a symbol to me. A flag of the dregs. A banner of all I was terrified of becoming. Of all I think I may have become. I can't think about it too long. It burrows in. Instead

At the end of August when the job had been offered to me it was full of optimism and hope and freedom and color. It was the position I'd been dreaming about. I was going to run a food pantry and my mission was to make it my own. I'd be in the central office one day a week, but otherwise, I was to create something special out of it and I had ideas. All of which were quickly shot down, hand in hand with all aspects of what I just described. In October, after a month, I had brought the idea of canvassing the town with flyers to let people know we were there. I'm still waiting for that to happen, three months later. I was going to repaint the nicotine-beige walls. Make it cleaner. fresher. I suggested multiple options to the director. Still waiting to hear back. Recently I was asked why there hadn't been much progress in the revitalization. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I'm absentminded. Maybe I get overwhelmed. But I certainly wasn't entirely to blame. I waited patiently for the water to wash over me. Drown away these days. Birth me into something new. 

Fucking wind was relentless. The cold. Close my car door and though it had been running only minutes ago the heat had seemingly vanished. I had fifteen minutes before I had to change over the laundry. Rowan was at the apartment, so I drove back to the apartment. 

Out of the car, into the cold. Hands not fast enough to get the keys, unlock the door, get inside. Up the stairs, and into the apartment and I could hear the shower. I imagined the hot water over my skin and was glad that Rowan had this moment. I walked into the kitchen and the bathroom.

"It's me," I said, trying not to scare her.

"I was just thinking about you."

I wondered what that meant and either way it was nice.

She peeked out from behind the shower curtain, her hair soaked and matted against her head. She smiled. 

"Oh yeah?" I said, leaning in and kissing her.

It filled me with light and warmth and my father was gone. The job was gone. The cold and the wind and deathly blue sky. Only this.

I slipped my hand around the back of her neck and held her head, continuing to kiss her. 

Only this.