Rekindled

Who Tells Your Story

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth. Took him five days to do so. At least, that's how the story goes. Which, was all fine and dandy, to create the heavens and the Earth. He created the land, and the sea. He created birds and animals alike. He looked at all of his creations and he said they were good. He could have stopped there, he had done enough. But, instead, he created man.

And it's been a battle ever since.

Its a quaint little story. The Bible goes on to say that man is created in his image but if I were him, I would not compare myself to the bumbling, stumbling, idiocracy that is man. After all, God made the heavens and Earth. The moon and the stars.

Anything a man can ever do is create trouble. Chaos, disorder, and...

Trouble.

When a man finds himself in a problematic situation..No. No. When your man finds himself in trouble, which is, most of the time....Like most men, he tends to turn to something bigger than himself. Love, which we have made plenty of. Religion, which maybe he still believes but I know with everything that has happened to us and between us, it wouldn't surprise me if he didn't. Maybe destiny or fate, but I happen to know that if he believed in either of those, he would be more accepting of what his life is. But he's not. He still believes that it can be ripped from him in a moment's notice, and perhaps it could, but he doesn't believe he deserved any of it. Not for a single second. He'd never say it, but deep down I know he thinks he doesn't deserve anything more than that post office job that he was destined to go into until SNL came calling.

And most men, like I said, turn to something bigger than them.

But my man?

"A long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last.
I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leaving
And the days go by so fast.
And its one more day up in the canyon
And its one more night in Hollywood.
If you think that I could be forgiven"

My man turns to music.

"I wish you would."

Smoke filters through his nose as he pounds away on the piano, that trusty Marlboro in his hand while his hair falls into his eyes. Something I can see as he turns his head to the side to blow the rest of the smoke out.

And cigarettes. And he allows both of those to tell his story.

He is shirtless and I watch as the freckles on his shoulder move as the muscles tense and release while he plays the Counting Crows song beautifully, singing a plethora of "na na na nas" while his foot presses the pedals. The scar on his back shines in the moonlight as it spills through the window, illuminating the fact that his jeans are barely tugged onto his legs. Just a bit of coarse brown hair sticks up from the open zipper. He must have pulled them on, post love-making, in his haste as his phone rang. I remember him looking at the name and scoffing before he kissed my temple and walked away for privacy, grabbing his cigarettes off his dresser on his way by.

I don't know when he started smoking, but I knew he only did so when he was stressed. And he's been stressed for at least the last three months because he's been smoking like a chimney. Not that I blame him. My divorce had gone smoothly, but I could only assume that that was due to what Jimmy had threatened him with, not that he ever told me the words he spoke that day. But while mine had gone smoothly, my divorce final just a week ago, Jimmy's had been anything but that. So, when he gets frustrated, or sad, or lonely, he turns to music and cigarettes. Not the simplest of combinations in vices and definitely not my favorite, given the history of cancer in his family. But..