blythe

[Blykenn]

<center></center>

<center>I lose some sales and my boss won?t be happy
But I can?t stop listening to the sound
Of two soft voices blended in perfect
On the reels of this record that I found

Everyday there?s a boy in the mirror asking me, ?What are you doing here??
Finding all my previous motives
Growing increasingly unclear

So I lose some sales and my boss won?t be happy
But there?s only one thing on my mind
Searching boxes underneath the counter
On the chance that on a tape I?d find
A song for someone who needs somewhere
To long for

Homesick, ?cause I no longer know
Where home is.

Blythe Kennedy</center>

(lyrics ? kings of convenience)

[Blykenn]

September.

They make them this way because they know people will be sitting in them for what feels like an eternity. They try to make them look all clean and neat, and they're horrible. They're gray. They're built a dime a dozen, and yet each one of them decides the fate for the rest of someone's life. Like mine. My chair is my holding zone while I wait for information that will change my life no matter what the outcome is. People just don't give enough credit to these chairs.

"Blythe, honey." It's my mom. This is the first time she's woken up in forty-something hours. And the first time she's ever called me 'honey'. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, hi. I was just thinking about these chairs."

"That's it?" She smiles. She didn't used to smile like that; she used to laugh like a maniac with an empty bottle of bourbon swinging around like a lollipop. "My darling, I love how simple-minded you are."

I smile at her, and I somehow feel my heart burst into flames. Not in a passionate way (and sure, one can be passionate towards their parent -- passionate isn't always romantic), but in a sort of... hiccup-heartburn kind of way. I bring my hand to my throat and wince, taking a swallow.

When she falls asleep again after a short-lived conversation, I can't help but feel overwhelmed with regret. This is the first time my mother and I have been civil towards each other since as far back as I can remember. We are not civil humans, my mother and I. She, with her red lips and wild smile, and me, with my flaming red hair and mother's temper. We do exchange casual glances across the dinner table, we do not exchange information regarding trivial things like how our days are going. Partially, this is because chatter is dangerous with my mother; she does not have a filter. She speaks her mind and lets her words hang on her lips in the form of a martini, sour and crawling through your veins until you want to vomit. Partially, also, this is because all answers go easily predicted. 'Fine, fine, pass me the salt, stop fooling with your food, you look fat in that shirt, when are you going to meet a nice boy like your father?,' et cetera, et cetera.

But I am overwhelmed, sitting in this chair, because when I see my mother laying in a bed that is not her own but has somehow gotten her vitals stamped to its footboard, I feel responsible. I think maybe stress made the cancer grow more quickly, that maybe if I had a calm temperament -- as calm as it is with my friends and extended family -- that we could have fought this better together. There could have been a chance for family reunions filled with laughter rather than awkward silences, whose hands went out to trays filled with shrimp, not a half-opened casket who held a woman too young to die. A funeral. That's what it will take to get this family together. Not even the body, still living and breathing in this hospital bed, will get this family together. But people won't see this broken family on my face. They will not feel my mother's death in my handshake, and they will not hear the funeral durge in my walking feet.

But they, who know me best, will watch this all swim inside my eyes.

There are no lollipops here.

[Blykenn]

?I miss my hair.?

Her couch was probably her favorite piece of furniture she owned, not because it was special ordered and came wrapped in plastic which might as well have been a big Christmas bow, but because it was her first purchase she?d made since purchasing her new home. Purchase, purchase ? the word itself sounded sweet to her ears. But, while she sprawled across her island of success with her head on its armrest and legs stretched across its width, Blythe still felt unsettled. Something was still missing.

?I like it,? Rosemary said from across the room, stationed neatly in a winged-back chair straight from vintage Channing Heights, an acoustic guitar placed traditionally on her crossed knee. ?I always thought you?d look good as a blonde.?

From the corner of her eye, Blythe caught the sunlight that trickled in through the kitchen window and splashed along the sink and countertops. She?d placed a small oregano plant in the sill of the window, and she turned her head to study it from her spot on the couch, sitting up to twist. Home, for Blythe, did not feel the same as it did for others. Though she grew up with her parents and lived in the same house for many years, it was not her home. Her home was in music, in rhythm, and perhaps this was the first time she felt really at home. She caught her bottom lip in her teeth and bit down, twisting around to pull a throw from off the back of the sofa, holding onto the hem. Flinging it forward, the material swept out and pillowed down over her gently.

?I just feel like some things change so much so fast. I?ve become someone who I don?t recognize anymore. I don?t have the same friends, I don?t have the same address, I don?t know. I just feel? weird.?

?Old,? Rosemary grinned.

?Yeah. Old,? Blythe groaned and rubbed her forehead.

?God, are you kidding me? I was kidding, you?re like? twenty-something. You?re barely drinking age.? Rosemary?s fingers went to gently brushing over the strings, her chording muted, as though it was just a figment of the imagination. Background music, even. ??Are you okay??

Blythe?s eyes went over to Rosemary. She didn?t like her tone. In fact, she felt herself tense, her jaw clamping shut, her veins hardening, her pulse throbbing. She wanted to lash out at the one woman who?d been a constant to her since childhood, to scream until she couldn?t speak, and then her mood plummeted into confusion. Bewilderment. How could she have had such a violent rush of emotion towards someone who asked such a simple question? This was not Blythe Kennedy. This was not the woman she worked so hard to be, so unlike her mother, so gentle and practically vulnerable. Blythe never wanted to be strong, not in a defensive way, not to the point that she couldn?t let anyone in. It reminded her of the last person she?d lashed out at only a few days before. And inside, where Blythe wanted to scream and kick and throw a fit, worry and concern simmered on a heated burner.

?I met someone,? it seemed completely off-subject, but it was pertinent for reasons Blythe knew.

?Did you?? Rosemary took this as a signal to drop the subject.

?He?s decent. But I don?t know. We?ve only talked twice and the second time he really got me fired up. Over? I don?t even remember what. He just said something to me and I snapped.?

Rosemary looked up from her guitar, her fingers going silent.

?I mean,? Blythe tried her best to laugh it off, ?I didn?t go entirely postal on him or anything. Maybe it was just because??

?He?s not Nikolas,? Rosemary interrupted ? rather, completed Blythe?s thought.

?Yeah. He?s the first guy I?ve really gotten attention from since Niks. And I guess between that, and my mom, it?s just been a lot of??

?Change,? Rosemary chimed in.

?Change.?

Suddenly, the promise and hope that was once instilled in Ms. Kennedy?s soul had been misplaced, stuffed under some dirty socks and replaced by fear. Her eyes that swam like the Mediterranean no longer kept themselves from flooding, and in her dampened emotion that was once solitude, Blythe Kennedy felt herself fearing her life.

[Blykenn]

October.

Every part of it was love. It was waking up to white-washed walls, thick red curtains vanished, and platforms instead of stages cutting through bar floors like islands intruding the ocean. The romance happened when the dollies came, kick drums and high hats being rolled through the door in protective cases, one or maybe two roadies setting it all up. These bands couldn?t afford anything fancy. They couldn?t afford their own earplugs, practically. But the passion really sprang to life when lips curved over mics and bodies went into full compulsory mode. She watched from afar, seated in the rear of the listening lounge with one knee crossed over the other lazily, one hand in her lap, the other?s fingers tapping on a bottle of Budweiser, their steady rhythm broken only when they paused to reel it in for a drink.

Blythe had always loved music. Since she was a baby, she could remember hearing Sinatra coming from her father?s office while we worked from home late into the night. When she was in kindergarten, she?d crawl down the steps quiet as a mouse, hiding behind the lip of the doorway that led through the kitchen and down the hallway to his office, stopping just in earshot so she could have a listen. Dark, creaking houses were not what scared her, and she balled up and laid on the floor listening to the music until she fell asleep. Many next mornings she was woken by mother or father, to be given a good pop on the rear and told to sleep in bed, not on the floor. It never occurred to Blythe that her father skirted past her in the night, not bothering to bring her back to bed.

Perhaps the memory of Sinatra was why she hated jazz music now. Each time she heard it, her heart leapt up into her throat and she couldn?t breathe. Her fingers would twitch and ball into loose fists, stuffing themselves into pockets or toying with loose strings on hems, anything to stay busy. She preferred the mellow, like folk or singer/songwriter. This, she also attributed to her own lack of musicianship. She wrote; she loved poetry and would scribble verses down into notebooks, on empty envelopes or the backs of school work (when there was school work to be had), but as far as singing a melody went, she sounded more like a foxhound than a headliner. It didn?t mean she didn?t try ? she sang to her heart?s content in the shower, and had she owned a car she felt sure she would?ve sang there as well ? but when those who knew her well enough to be completely honest with her explained they?d rather stuff cotton balls in their ears than listen to her try to sing ?Left and Leaving?, she got the point. Her job and place in society was to appreciate music, not make it.

So, it was no surprise that when she was approached at Midway Music Hall and given a card for a production company that off the bat she knew it was not for her. Her eyes lifted from the stage to a young man?s face only long enough to acknowledge his presence, but his detail went unnoticed and so did the business card. She assumed he was passing out coupons or fliers for new venues opening up, as many places came to shows to promote their own. When the man spoke, Blythe nearly jumped out of her skin, her wide eyes caught between his smile and the singer?s crooning mouth.

?I didn?t mean to startle you,? he said rather nicely. ?Is this your favorite song??

?They?re all my favorite song,? she grinned and uncrossed her legs, leaning forward to push the chair out across from her. ?Here, sit. I don?t mean to be rude.?

?It will just take a moment,? the man grinned widely and he accepted the seat. He was wearing dark slacks and a golf shirt, also dark, but given the lighting Blythe couldn?t tell if it was black or navy blue. ?I see you here often,? he went on, ?well, not often. More than often.?

?I like the tunes,? she let the u glide out of her mouth slowly, her head nodding slowly as though she?d smoked a bowl before the show ? but she hadn?t ? she was rather a fan of effect. ?I get a kick out of musicians,? she shrugged and sat up a little, crossing her legs again, her voice back to normal. She didn?t take offense to the man; he was exactly right. Blythe had come so often that the other regulars knew her by name.

?Have you got an ear for music? I mean, do you play anything? Sing at all??

Blythe laughed, and the way her nose crinkled and her head tipped back, the man had his answer quickly.

?Well, I?ve got a proposition for you.?

?Uh oh. My mommy told me to never take candy from strange men,? Blythe grinned.

?Well,? he stuck out his index finger and slid the business card across the table to her. ?Now I?m not a stranger.?

Blythe blinked and lost her sense of humor, curiosity taking over. Leaning forward, she studied the card: Daniel Casston. Rheinhart Productions.

?So?? She didn?t mean it rudely. It was more of a prompt than a bark.

?So I?ve been watching you for some time now. Months, really.?

?I haven?t been here months,? she corrected him, shifting slightly in her seat.

?Sure you have, just not all in a row. You used to come here every Tuesday and Saturday, and sometimes Friday, but not when it?s Swing Night. You like acoustic, artsy folks who either loop or are essentially a one-man band. You don?t care about drums much, but you prefer harmony. You especially prefer a male lead vocalist with a female duet.?

Blythe stared.

?You were here last Spring and that?s when I first spotted you. I thought I lost you completely back in August, and it took me from the end of September to now to find you again. Without that red hair of yours, my radar was thrown off.?

?Are you in the mafia or something? I don?t owe anybody anything.?

He laughed.

?You saw the card,? he motioned to it with his fingers unraveling into an easy gesture. ?I?m here to offer you a job. And maybe a drink.?

?A job?? She leaned forward and stared at him, hard, with her eyebrows raised. She was whispering now, staged whispers that were practically yells, but between shock and confusion, she?d lost her sweet lilt. ?Doing what? Cleaning bathrooms? I haven?t got a degree, I can?t sing, what could yo??

?Slow down,? he chuckled and put his hands up in defeat, patting at the air in front of him, leaning back in his chair for his ankle to cross over onto his knee. ?I know you?ve got talent; just not in your mouth. It?s in your ears, and that?s what these people need. I don?t want to hire you as a musician, I want to hire you as a scout. You already do twice as much work as my usual scouts do, and I don?t know what job you?ve got now but judging from the clothes I see you in, I doubt you make nearly as much as they do. ?Not that you don?t wear nice clothes,? he tacked on quickly to save himself, ?I just see you recycle outfits frequently.?


The next morning, Blythe woke up to a starting crash of pots and pans, Bailey running through the house and up the stairs until his was slithering under the covers down the length of Blythe?s body, curled up at the foot of the bed.

?Jesus Christ,? she groaned and rolled onto her stomach, careful not to squish the dog, her arms folding under her pillow as she pressed her cheek into its warmth. Just as she started to doze off again, her phone rang.

?Hellowhat?sup,? murmured a sleepy Blythe who was now shaking from her nervous being tricked twice in three minutes.

?Good morning sunshine!?

?Hey, Kirk. Morning.?

?What did you do last night??

At that point, Blythe flipped onto her back and shot straight up, her jaw dropped, her eyes saucer-wide. Every muscle in her body froze and she blinked at the opposite wall, her cheeks growing flushed. That?s when it all came back to her in a wave that crashed into her so hard she could not move, she could not speak, she could not breathe. Then, the shielding wave was cracked by a brilliant smile.

??I think I got a job.?

[Blykenn]

When the sun rose, her blankets were pulled off and her jeans were on, feet stuffed into boots ready to crunch through slush. She was just as sneaky as he was -- finding his address, Blythe pulled a burned CD wrapped in a paper sleeve from beneath the shield of her coat, then slapped a sticky note on it. Realizing she forgot tape, she did what Blythe normally did -- she pulled the piece of chewing gum from her mouth and stuck it to the sleeve, sticking it to his door. She knew, in the long run, she'd end up paying for it. Bouncing on her toes anxiously, she held it there until she knew it would stick, her eyes darting frantically to be sure no one was coming, her ear pressing to the door occasionally to make sure he was not right on the other end, watching through the peephole. Once she knew the gum would hold, she tip-toed off. The note read:

<center>Some food for thought from your new friend Blythe. See you tonight.</center>

The CD sang from the words of some convenient kings' mouth:

<center>If you wanna be my friend, you want us to get along..
please do not expect me to wrap it up and keep it there..
an observation I am doing could easily be understood as cynical demeanor..
but one of us misread.. what do you know.. it happened again.

A friend is not a means you utilize to get somewhere..
somehow I didn?t notice friendship is an end.
What do you know, it happened again

How come no one told me: all throughout history, the loneliest people were the ones who always spoke the truth,
the ones who made a difference by withstanding the indifference
I guess it?s up to me now.. should I take that risk or just smile?

What do you know.. it happened again.
What do you know
</center>

[Blykenn]

The bruise on her right cheek was about the size of a golf-ball, already a sick color of purple and blue. She didn't realize she'd hit the ice so hard, but with every movement she was reminded of it.

"Jesus," she breathed out in a wince and peeled back the material of her jeans, studying her rear end in the full-length mirror in her room. "Shit."

"What the hell happened to you?" Rosemary walked in at just the right moment, a basket of fresh laundry tucked under her arm. "Did you have some crazy sexcapade last night or something?"

"Ha, ha," Blythe mocked her a little and moved to touch the bruise, immediately regretting it. "I went ice skating today and fell down."

"You? Went ice-skating? I bet that was a sight for sore asse-- I mean-- eyes..." Rosemary grinned sweetly.

"Don't you have a home?" Smugly.

"About that. Are we good to go with the sublease?"

"Nn-hnn," Blythe bit down onto her bottom lip and shrugged back into her jeans, twisting her face all up as she zipped up her pants. "The papers will be ready tomorrow. I'll make your key for you toni-- er-- tomorrow, too." Catching her slip, she blushed and turned away from Rosemary, helping her sort through the laundry she dumped all over the bed.

"That's fine; you have plans for tonight? Kirk is having a party, it's going to be pretty good I think. Lots of people back in town for the holidays."

"Yeah," Blythe didn't think twice about it. "I've got plans." But, she didn't manage to say what.

"Who did you go ice-skating with?" It occurred to Rosemary that while Blythe was ridiculously spontaneous -- and sometimes just downright ridiculous -- that she most likely would not go skating alone. "Skating alone could be dangerous," she prompted, knowing something was up.

"Jason," Blythe didn't bother to try to hide it.

"Who?" Rosemary made a face. "That guy you went all crazies on the other day?"

"When you say 'crazies' you sound retarded," Blythe pointed out jokingly, then nodded sheepishly. "Yeah. Okay, so and but I told you. I didn't go totally postal or anything."

"Okay, so and but...," Rosemary laughed outrightly. "Now who sounds retarded?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, no. Nonono." Rosemary nearly dropped the pair of panties she was folding.

"What?" So did Blythe. "What's wrong?"

"...You're retarded over this guy, aren't you?!"

"Are we in middle school? Who says that? No, I am not retarded over him. We're friends. We have a friends date tonight."

Rosemary stared at Blythe from her side of the bed.

"What?!"

"Friends date? Are you shitting me? Friends don't have dates, dumbass. That's why they're friends."

Blythe paused and let her hands drop down, still holding the tee shirt she was in the process of folding.

"See?" Rosemary said overly-sweetly. "You're retarded over him. You can't even finish folding a shirt."

[Blykenn]

I saw him a few weeks ago.

He was standing there outside one of our bars, our bars, decorating the wall with spray paint. I smiled at him and said hello and kept walking, pretending not to notice who he was. I didn?t want him to see what I saw; I didn?t want him to see the flooding that happens when he?s never around. I didn?t want him to see the type of person I?d become since finding him that day at the Mexican restaurant.

Now, I have nothing to show for it. He?s gone, and he?s not coming back. I know that; he knows that. We might pretend; we might cross each other?s paths on the street again, but we won?t stop to speak. We?ll smile cordially and pretend we don?t recognize each other, he with his healthy blood and me with my new hair. We might even go as far as to reintroduce ourselves to each other, but only if there is no one else around. Only if we have nothing better to do.

So this is who I?ve become. A woman who lives on a memory, whose heart swells with every dream, then crashes with every morning. I have become that pitiful woman who stood on the stairs last night to receive a gift from a friend, and promptly threw it away because friendship no longer means anything. Once, I had more. I had someone to lean on; someone to trust. Once, I had the guts to stand up for what I believe in, and not pittle-pattle around about how ?I will support you always? when I have no support at all. I never meant to become a woman who promised that she understood how to take things slow, but couldn?t. I never meant to be so enwrapped in my own heart that I run away from others.

At one time, someone loved me. He held my face in his hands and my spirit in his heart, and we could sit together and say nothing and it was perfect. Now, this brand new person stands in front of me with stars in his hands and me at arm?s length, and there is nothing I can do about it. I cannot reach this man; I cannot be the friend he wants me to be. He will not love me; I will not follow through on all of the things I promised on the steps. I will run away, I will fold back into a paper bird wanting to fly up and out away from here. I want to escape the mundane; I want to escape the knowing.

Who am I, that I sit here writing this, so obsessed over a stupid little gift that was not stupid at all, but perfect? Who am I that I can?t have a simple friendship without going crazy over it, without laying in bed thinking of his face before I fall asleep at night, without dreaming of ball gowns and waltzes? Who am I, that I cannot hold a pleasant conversation with Rosemary without keeping an ear out for a knock at the door, hoping he has come to drop by and say hello? My days were never based on someone else. Not even Niks. No one determined how I spent my time, and now, I make time purposefully just incase. It?s not even a for sure! Just incase he comes by and wants to snag me for the afternoon. Just incase he wants to take me ice skating, or to a winter ball. When will just incase become not enough?

I feel sick to myself, not only because I have come to a realization about how selfish I am, but that I have even had to take the time to sit down and write out my thoughts because there is no other way to get them out of my body and away from my priorities. I can?t keep living on a hope that someday he will come to his senses. I can?t keep forcing myself to pretend to know what the outcome will be. I can?t keep feeling discontent simply because someone else is not falling for exactly what I want and giving it to me exactly when I want. It?s not fair. And it?s not how I have ever been before.

Something has got to change.

[Blykenn]

?Hello??

?Blythe. It?s James.?

?Hi, Dad.?

?Hello, Blythe. Listen. I just want to see how you?re doing.?

?I?m fine.?

?Have you found a job yet??

??I told you a month ago I?d gotten a job. I?m a scou??

?No, no. Not that music bull. A real job.?

Silence.

?Listen. My secretary quit on me and I could use your help.?

?So my career doesn?t count, but being your secretary is valid.?

?How much do you make? Eight bucks an hour? Come on, Blythe??

?No.?

??No??

?No. I won?t be your secretary. Don?t call me anymore.?

?Blythe. Blythe don?t hang up.?

?Why? You?ve made your monthly call and have managed to irritate me already.?

?Listen.?

?You just call to criticize me. You don?t even ca??

?Listen.?

Silence.

?I? can you come home?? His voice breaks. ?I can?t stop? this. Crying.?

??Daddy??

?Blythe.?

?I?ll be right there.?

[Blykenn]

The sidewalks crunched beneath her boots with a welcoming sound that meant it?s wintertime, her favorite time of year. Bundled up in a soft pink scarf, pea coat, and mitten-covered hands, she walked with a slowness that meant the cold does not bother her, but rather wraps her up in a tranquility that she needs. After the taxi?s door has been shut and the clock has been paid off, she stepped up onto the curb and stood in front of a house she grew up in, a Tudor building with frost-bitten grass and snowdust-covered walk. Blythe stood and stared up into the face of the building, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, but simply looking. Memorizing, as though she?d forgotten. Seeing the house for what it was ? a shelter for several people, who were connected by blood but not by morals. Here, she stood in the face of her past ? both distant and not so long ago ? and she pressed on to open the door, tapping the toes of her boots onto the mat by the door, chunks of slush and snow falling away from her feet to make crumpled piles just missing the hardwood floors.

Once her boots had been pulled off, her sock-covered feet carried her through the kitchen and down a hall whose walls bled Sinatra and moaned of stranger?s voices. Pausing in front of her father?s office door, she pressed her ear to the wood to listen; there was no Sinatra today, there were no women?s voices. Only clicking at a computer from a man whose voice did not speak.

?Dad,? she knocked twice ? mutedly due to her mitten ? and pushed the door open just a bit to peek in. Finding him behind his desk, she opened the door the rest of the way and stood in the doorway, her covered hands folding into each other to hang in front of her body.

?Blythe,? he did not say overly loudly, but loudly enough for the sad lilt in his voice to be obvious. When he looked at her from over his laptop, she saw his red eyes and the reddened tip of his nose. He hid behind his glasses ? her mother always said he wore them well ? but when he saw his daughter standing before him as a woman, not a girl, he removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair, slowly closing his laptop.

?I got here as soon as I could,? her gloved hand moved to motion towards the door, as though she were speaking lines from a stage, and this was the place in the script where it read make subtle gestures, not too stiffly.

?I have a lot to tell you,? he stood up from behind his desk and moved to the front of it, his teeth moving to bite onto the tip of his frames. ?I?m just not sure where to start.? He rubbed his forehead, he shifted his weight, he did all those things nervous fathers do when they are about to open up to their daughters. He motioned to a chocolate-colored leather seat, one of two, and silently told her with his hand to sit.

Without speaking, Blythe moved to the chair and settled down, her eyes on his desk rather than his face because this was the Seat of Punishment. Her eyes were accustomed to going to the desk to stare off into space, reminiscent of whatever trouble she?d just caused, her heart fluttering madly behind her ribcage. The instant her backside hit the seat, her mind went through its routine. Scenes of her teenage years flashed through her mind?s eye, playing a quick reel of all previous circumstances that landed her in this chair. She knew better than to open her mouth; when directed to sit in this seat, it meant it was her father?s turn to speak, not hers.

?You look startled,? her father said. ?You look like you?re not all here.?

?I?m here,? her eyes stayed on the desk, her tone flat like a sixteen year old whose been caught skipping class.

?Blythe. Look at me please.?

Her eyes went to him and she blinked, the square of her jaw softening just a bit.

?Sorry,? she couldn?t help but smile. It wasn?t much, but it was enough. ?I guess I?m just so used to??

?I know,? he did not smile back. His eyes went to the floor and he sighed, leaning back against his desk, his heels crossing as his teeth bit into the tip of his frames. He was straight out of a Ralph Lauren magazine, with his slacks and his golf sweater and his hard oak desk and leather seats; the epitome of a figure father, as far as the typical golf-ridden American was concerned. ?I?m not proud for what I?ve done,? he remained cordial with her, his face turning to stone over time because if he so much as flinched, it?d be the end of him.

?What have you done?? Skeptical, Blythe?s eyes rolled up to him and studied him, narrowing into almost a peer. For a split moment, she felt herself inwardly accuse him of her mother?s death. Surely he was ashamed of that.

?I think it?s maybe more what I haven?t done,? he pushed off from the ledge of the desk and moved to the window, his hands folding into his pockets to jingle keys idly, his eyes set on pieces of sky that lined the top of a Sycamore tree. ?I wasn?t there for you when you were young? that?s no secret. And I wasn?t there for you when your mother was going under.? He rolled from toe-to-heel as though he were a used car salesman awaiting a potential buyer, his fingers falling still, his shoulders stretching and collapsing as he sucked in a deep breath and exhaled. ?But,? he breathed out and turned to walk back to the desk, all routine and void of eye contact, ?I?m also not proud of the women. I was not faithful to your mother and I know you knew that from a young age.?

?Shouldn?t you have said all this to her face before it was too late??

?Blythe,? James groaned and rubbed his forehead, hiding his eyes for a moment. ?Can?t you just listen without being defensive??

?Ha,? she laughed at him mockingly and shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. ?Me, defensive. I wonder why??

?Don?t you know how hard this is for me??

?Don?t you know how hard it was to be the only one holding Mom?s hand? Don?t you know how hard it was fixing dinner for myself because you were too damn busy hiring ?secretaries? and firing had-beens? Don?t talk to me about hard, Dad, because I had hard. I had hard for my whole fucking life.?

He watched her with wide eyes, his face frozen into something shocked. He was not accustomed to hearing his daughter use such intolerable language.

In her seat, Blythe withered into something full of pity and disgust, and it was her turn to take a hand and rub her forehead, feeling herself crumble into practically nothing but a pile of skin and bones there in the leather seat. One thing she refused to do, however upsetting and volatile she might have been, was to apologize for what she said. She?d been saving it for the perfect opportunity for umpteen years, and this was it. This was the culmination of everything she?d wanted to tell him, years of journal entries and disgustingly bad poetry. Everything, all she needed to say, was in a very small sentence: I wish you were not my father.

?I?ll ask you to leave now,? James finally said after an unhealthily long pause in conversation. With the tremor of his voice, he bit down hard on his tongue and tightened his jawline, now refusing to break down in front of his daughter the way he?d planned. ?Go,? he barked and pointed to the door, his eyes boring into her.

And Blythe was simply where she had been for all of the years previous to this one: out in the cold. It was the best place for a Ralph Lauren father?s daughter to be.

[Blykenn]

<center>Got three dollars burning in my pocket, I know I know
Got three dollars burning in my pocket, I know I know
I got, I got, I got to keep it there.

Got an old ghost locked in my closet, I know I know
Got an old ghost locked in my closet, I know I know
I got, I got, I got to keep it there.

Came down on a bottle rocket
Found my heart right where I locked it
Last night like rain on chalk
It's gone like money in my pocket.

See those stars shining in your eyes and I know I know
See those stars shining in your eyes and I know I know
I got, I got, I got to keep it there.

Came down on a bottle rocket
Found my heart right where I locked it
Last night like rain on chalk
It's gone like money in my pocket.

All my troubles in the rear view mirror, I know I know
All my troubles in the rear view mirror, I know I know
I got, I got, I got to keep them there.
</center>



the weepies.