Ella and Me

"While I'm crying for you, you're laughing at me."

Ella Fitzgerald is singing to me again.

I take another drink. I'm teaching myself to drink whiskey.

Two days ago I was laughing and talking with friends. Today I'm brooding and half naked in my room. Singing along with songs that are sung by people who have been dead for years.

My favorite people are dead. My favorite socks are dirty.

I'm sad because I could be happy and when there is a possibility of happiness a strong fear seems to settle in my stomach and won't let go.

He is gentle and sweet. He asks how my day was. He cares if I'm sad. He has soft brown hair that flips up at the tips. His lips are thin and smooth.

Many times I have been with men who were too quick to assign me a role or put me in a particular space where I was regulated and watched.

I'm sure he's not perfect. Maybe he has terrible breath or what if he likes nascar or something.

What if he likes to wake up early on Saturday mornings?
What if he doesn't like that same movies as I do?

I bet he'd hold me and maybe, maybe I wouldn't mind being held by him.

And that's all I want. I want a place to rest my head. I want a life that is happy.

Sometimes I feel lonely. And then I remember that things will be ok. Because he isn't like anyone I've ever met and I'm better than I used to be.