#maybe i should just mentally and emotionally marry Gale?

[miradelletarot]

Listen... It's not MYYYY fault I'm attracted to men in their early to mid 40s who have tattoos, long hair, facial hair, treat their partner with respect, are financially stable, and are in touch with their feelings, ok?

[lemonluvgirl]

 The Hoodie by LemonLuvGirl87

**Written for @mrspeetamellark based off the prompt: 

“I’ve been wearing my boyfriend’s hoodie around the house for the last week. I tried to give it back last night. 

“That’s not my hoodie.” Realized with horror I’ve been wearing our builder’s hoodie. In front of our builder.” 

~

The house remodel lasted longer than my relationship. 

I inherited the house after my mother passed away. The summer after my senior year of college I took a break before enrolling into graduate school after my mother fell ill. That illness turned out to be stage 4 cancer, inoperable. 

She was gone before Prim and I could even process the diagnosis. 

Honesty I was surprised she held on as long as she did. My mother had always been half present, mentally and emotionally, ever since our father died 14 years ago. 

One thing she did have the presence of mind to do years before she ever fell ill was to get a really great life insurance policy. She had obviously learned from dad’s mistakes. 

So, at 25 I found myself a homeowner. Although it wasn’t much of a home. Our ancestral dwelling had been considered a fixer-upper back when my parents initially bought it. Almost 30 years ago. After my father’s death we never really got around to fixing the place up. 

It was Gale’s idea for me to use part of the life insurance money we got from mom’s death to remodel the house. 

Gale was around a lot after I moved back home. He helped with the funeral arrangements, the paperwork for filing the life insurance claim, he helped me with Prim. It took both of us to convince her not to change her plans to go back to school after mom died and finish her medical degree. But we did it. 

Somewhere along the way our friendship shifted from platonic to not so platonic and before I knew it we were taking on the idea of remodeling the house to make it ours. 

It should have been a happy ever after to my sad hallmark movie life. 

Girl moves back home due to tragic circumstances, reconnects with long lost best friend, cue the mood music and relationship montage. Then the picturesque ending with them settling into their new home and new life together. 

Except my reality didn’t include a Nicholas Sparks ending to a tragic story. Not at all. 

The first problem was that I had inherited the fixer-upper from hell. We went through 3, no seriously 3 contractors in the first 6 months. Every time we’d get one thing fixed we’d find another problem. Which meant more time, more money, and more STRESS for Gale and I. 

Somewhere around the nine month mark, just like a pregnancy coming to term, Gale and I’s relationship issues that we had both been trying out best to ignore came to a head. 

“Look Gale, I’m sorry things didn’t work out. But I’m just not ready to get married right now.” 

“The thing is Katniss, I am. I’m more than ready. But if you aren’t, there’s nothing I can do about it.” 

“Maybe we should take some time off.” 

“That would probably be a good idea. I’ll stay at my mom’s house tonight and come back to pick up my stuff in the morning.” 

“Okay. Um, do you want your hoodie back?” I ask in a small voice. 

I didn’t really want to give it back. It was soft and warm and smelled deliciously male. I had been wearing it all week in an effort to remind myself about some of the things I liked about Gale. Like the way his hoodie smelled. 

Comforting and slightly sweet with hints of wild herbs and cinnamon. 

Gale gives me a strange look when I unenthusiastically peel the oversized orange hoodie over my head and offer it back to him. 

“That’s not my hoodie.” Gale tells me. 

“Of course it's yours. I grabbed it from the coat closet a week ago. I’ve been wearing it since then.” I tell him, hugging the maligned hoodie against my chest as if to shield it from Gale’s denial. Then I sniff it again lightly for good measure. 

It still smells wonderful. 

“Wow, Catnip. I can honestly say now that I’m surprised we lasted this long. I mean, you don’t even know your own boyfriend’s clothes from the contractor’s.” Gale says with a slightly amused snort. 

“WHAT?” I squeak, my voice reaching several octaves higher than my usual range,

At the comical expression on my face Gale begins to belly laugh. Loudly. He almost doubles over from his own hysterics. 

I am silent in my humiliation. But I don’t let go of the damned hoodie. Instead I hug it closer to me, my last defense against the glaring truth that I am a shitty girlfriend. 

“Katniss, I’ll always love you. But let’s promise each other to never try to be more than friends ever again ok?” Gale says after he recovers. 

I nod numbly at him as I watch him go to the coat closet and pull out his black leather jacket. The one he always wears, and has worn for years. 

My cheeks are tinged pink with embarrassment. 

“See you, gorgeous.” Gale says finally before offering me a sad little wave and leaving out the front door. 

I offer him a half hearted wave in return. 

I hear the sound of his pick up start, and drive away. That’d when it hits me that that’s it, we’re over. Our relationship hadn’t even survived longer than the remodel. 

Just as I feel a wave of tears coming on I hear a loud clatter coming from the hall. 

“Shit!” I hear a familiar voice curse quietly. 

If I was embarrassed before, now I am officially humiliated beyond all reason. 

“PEETA? What are you still doing here?!” I demand when I find our blond, good natured contractor struggling to pick up a vase he dropped on the floor. 

“Um….its Friday….so I was supposed to give you this week’s invoice and take your payment...but then I heard you both arguing and decided to wait a bit...and yeah…” He trails off, looking sheepish and slightly embarrassed. 

So, he heard everything. The argument, the break up, and then that incredibly shameful exchange about the hoodie. 

Crap.

 THE HOODIE. 

I still had his hoodie. 

I looked down at the offending garment in question, and then back up into his handsome face. 

And then promptly burst into tears. 

“Here! Take it!” I sob as I shove the hoodie at him. 

“What? No, no. Katniss, you don’t have to give it back. Honestly, keep it.” He says as he offers it back to me, a gentle expression in his eyes. 

Great. Now the cute builder feels sorry for me. I think to myself with a mounting sense of self loathing. 

“No, it's yours. And I took it by mistake. I’m so sorry! Here let me just go get my check book and then you can be on your way.” I tell him, grabbing a hold of my wild emotions and shoving them down deep as I can. 

I march back to the living room, grab my purse, and dig around for my checkbook despite my watery vision. I finally find it and lean over on the coffee table to write out the check. 

I sniffle a few times, but ultimately get it done. When I turn around I find Peeta waiting with that same abashed expression on his face. I had always thought he had a nice face. Almost too beautiful for a man in his line of work, what with the manual labor and all. 

“Here,” I tell him, thrusting the check out to him and looking over his shoulder so that I don’t have to see the look of pity in his gorgeous blue eyes. 

“Thanks.” He mutters, as his hand reaches out and grasps the check before folding it in half and tucking it into his back pocket. 

“Yeah. No problem. See you Monday?” I say the last word with a cringe worthy amount of uncertainty. I didn’t know if he’d ever want to come back here. This house was a death trap. His client was a nutcase who stole his clothes. The pay wasn’t all that great either. 

I wouldn’t blame him if he high-tailed it out and lost my contact information. The other contractors had run for the hills after putting up with much less. 

“Katniss. Pardon my intrusiveness, but is there someone you’d like me to call for you? A friend or relative?” 

I snorted at his concern. 

“I’ll be fine. I’m not the first girl to get dumped on a Friday night. And I’m sure I won’t be the last. Go home Peeta, to your wife or girlfriend or whoever and forget about your pathetic client.” I tell him with a roll of my eyes. 

The bravado feels good coming out. I’ve always done better with masking my feelings than giving into them. 

“I don’t have anyone to go home to.” He says as he runs his large calloused hand through his messy blond waves. He gives me another sheepish smile. 

“I got dumped this past Tuesday, so I guess it’s my turn to officially welcome you to the club” He adds, and now his cheeks are blooming with color as I stare at him open-mouthed. 

“Who in their right mind would ever break up with you?” I finally ask, flabbergasted. 

Peeta’s been our builder for months now. He’s a catch, by no stretch of the term. He was not only fit as a damn thoroughbred, he was a genuinely good guy. Polite to a fault, easy-going, and considerate. Most of all he was genuinely sweet and kind. 

I forgo all subtlety with my remark and his intensely blue eyes zero in on me. 

“I could ask you the same question, except I’ve seen the idiot who let go. And sorry if it's too soon to say this, but good riddance.” He tells me with a slight edge to his voice and I couldn’t be more surprised if someone had slapped me. 

“We’re better off as friends. I don’t know what we were thinking, trying to be a couple.” I mutter, turning away from his intense gaze. 

“At least you ended things pretty amicably.” He offers the comment in consolation. 

“I guess. Oh, I’m sorry you said you got dumped too! That really sucks.” I tell him looking back up again.

“I don’t know. I’m starting to think maybe I’m better off. There’s no point in investing yourself in a relationship that has no spark, no real connection.” He says in a curious tone as his gaze slides away from me after lingering a beat too long. 

I gulp. 

“Yeah.” I agree, thinking about how things had been almost too comfortable with Gale. We had all the spark of a couple who had been married for 50 years, even at the beginning of our relationship. Funny how I never realized that. 

Peeta smiled back at me, in that gentle way of his, and I felt a warmth stir inside my chest. 

“Would you maybe want to order a pizza and um, hang out for a while in recently dumped solidarity?” I blurt the words out before I can stop myself. I watch his mouth go slack in reaction to my forwardness, and in the next moment I wish for the ground to open and swallow me up. 

“I mean, not that you have to. You probably have plans! I shouldn’t have asked you that--” I backtrack furiously, and I babble. 

He places one large warm hand over mine to stop my ranting. 

“Hey, hey. Katniss. I would really like that.” He says and I feel myself relax. 

“Ok.” I tell him, a small smile peeking out, despite the evening’s vastly dismal events. 

“Ok.” He agrees, and we move to the kitchen to find some take out menus. 

~

Six Months Later

“Katniss, have you seen my orange hoodie?” Peeta calls from the master bedroom that he finished remodeling single handedly one month ago. 

“Have you checked the coat closet?” I call back, with a smirk. 

It had been five months since we started dating, and three weeks since we’d moved in together. This time around there was no question whether there was a true connection or spark between either of us. After Peeta had diligently fixed up every room in the house we’d celebrated by making unrestricted and unabashed love on every available surface. 

“Yes! I already checked there!” He calls back, voice growing more annoyed as I heard him double checking the hamper and swearing to himself. 

I lower my head and snuggle deeper into the collar of the hoodie in question, inhaling its owner’s scrumptious scent. 

“Well, check again!” I call out with a wicked grin, knowing that he’ll have to pass by the kitchen to get to the coat closet by the door. Last night he had finally broken down and admitted why he never corrected me 6 months ago when I walked around for a whole week wearing his jacket even though I was dating someone else. 

He had had a crush on me from the moment he laid eyes on me, and when I took to wearing his hoodie, the crush had deepened into something more serious. 

He said he had this recurring fantasy of walking in one morning to get started on the remodeling work, only to find me sitting in the kitchen wearing his orange sweater with a cheeky grin on my face, and my bare legs propped up on the table, just waiting for him.

So now, I’m in position, and eagerly anticipating his entrance, knowing that when he finds me wearing his favorite orange hoodie (and nothing else) we’ll finally get the chance to turn his fantasy into a reality. 

It’s funny how little things can bring two people together. 

*unbetaed and written in two hours so sorry about typos*

[elsanna-shenanigans]

June Contest Submission #19: Nube Negra

Words: ca. 3,700 Setting: post-F2 Lemon: no CW: self-harm, angst

“It looks ready to storm outside.”

“Huh, you think?”

“Yeah, look.”

“Mmm. Does that mean you’ll stay longer?”

“Stay longer?”

“Yes, stay longer.”

It was always frustratingly fleeting, the times that Elsa would come to the castle. She would come for just a single night, maybe once a week if that, and often would not even stay until morning. The rain had provided the perfect excuse, it would have been simple for her to stay. Elsa wanted to stay, right?

Anna slumped in her throne, one hand tightly gripping the arm. The other raked its way up her face and through her hair, smoothing it for the hundredth time. Why? What had she done to deserve this ire? It had all been going so well before, so what changed?

She needed to reflect on what happened last night. How could it have gone so wrong? It was just a simple request. Now Elsa was upset, and she had to piece together why. But maybe she should have expected that from her, because her efforts always made Elsa upset, didn’t they. No, that was cruel.

‘Think, Anna!’

There was only a limited amount of time before court began, so she would have to do this quickly. Now then, where did this all begin?

__________________

The day was beautiful, and the heat gentle. The humidity did its best to smother everyone, but the heat was far too tame to cause breathy discomfort. Gale had brought a message confirming the allotted time, and Anna had the time set aside by her advisors. Running a country took a lot of effort, but she could always make room for Elsa.

Anna had noticed the grey clouds gathering in the distance and hoped to the gods above that Elsa would make it before they realized their threat. It probably didn’t matter, since it wasn’t like she felt the cold or that type of discomfort. They would have fun, indoors or out. That’s what mattered. If she was lucky, it was possible that they would be able to cuddle up again while the rain pattered down.

It was strange though, Elsa’s letter. Something about the word choice felt stilted, or maybe reluctant was the better word. There seemed to be many a reference to being very busy and still hoping to make it, despite all the issues. Was she trying to say that she wasn’t coming at all? If so, why not state it outright? But that was something they could bring up later, since Elsa didn’t have to come if she really didn’t want to. Anna wasn’t that clingy.

__________________

‘The letter.’

Oh man, she should have read that more carefully and taken it to heart. Stupid, stupid, stupid, how could she have been so blind? Elsa hadn’t wanted to spend time with her and tried to let her down easily. And who could blame her? Anna could be clingy and overbearing on the best of days. Was that an attempt to spare her the upset?

Elsa had always been the reclusive type, even before the accident. Heck, even afterwards it was difficult to spend time with her. Anna had tried to respect those boundaries, but even she knew she had broken them occasionally. That was wrong, wasn’t it. Terribly, utterly wrong. Boundaries were there for a reason.

Her head ached and a sick feeling rose in her chest, along with a lump and a pit in her stomach. God, god, oh god she was horrible. Her nails dug into her forehead and raked her scalp hard as tears threatened to well. No! The person in the wrong should not be upset for their misconduct, it was their own misbehavior.

It was for the best that Elsa spent her time away from someone so awful, who treated her in such a sick way. Making her so deeply uncomfortable and yet still drew her in like a tired moth. And yet, and yet loving Kristoff, good Kristoff…

He gave it all up, hadn’t he? But he was the son of love experts, he would know, they would know. He had offered to help them hide, had known since long before. And yet he stood with them. Why? Why would he give hope to someone like her?

__________________

They had spoken in private before. Matters of the heart, discussions of romance. It was a topic of common interest between them, and Anna was a quick learner. Kristoff was as enthusiastic as she, but over time something in their dynamic changed. Maybe it was the spark in his eye, or maybe it was her dulled excitement. Whatever it was, something was off.

It all came to a head when he stopped her in the hall one day, and they retreated to a private study where they would not be disturbed. Kristoff himself looked impassive, though she could tell his composure was just a bit off.

Kristoff breathed in, and spoke:

“Anna, I know.”

A spark of confusion and worry leapt into her chest as she responded.

“Know what?” Her voice was pitched up, almost breathless.

“Look, I know how you feel about Elsa.”

“Y-you what? I- You do?! I- I mean I don’t feel anything about her, except well sisterly love but you know that’s normal! Right? Right.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Kristoff gave a wan chuckle, “I’m not mad.” Anna blinked. “You’re not?”

“Anna, I was raised by love experts. Trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about. And you sister? You’re in love.”

“But… but I’m not. Well, I am but it’s with you.”

Kristoff shook his head and smiled.

“You really are oblivious huh.”

“I am not!”

“Okay, let me put it this way. What would you do for her?”

“Anything! You know that!”

“Would you die for her?”

“You know I would and did with that whole frozen heart thing! I’d be dead if it weren’t true love!’

“Feistypants, that’s not how people usually act. And the true love? It doesn’t apply to everyone.” “That was sisterly love and you know it.”

“Anna,” he said, “listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. It’s okay to admit it.”

She looked at him, mouth quivering, then said, “But what about you?”

“What about me?” “Wouldn’t that hurt you?”

Kristoff shook his head. “I’ve gotten over it, really. I just want you to be happy, okay? That’s what would make me happy.”

Anna shook her head and hugged him. “God, Kristoff, I don’t think I could repay you.”

“How ‘bout a sack of the best carrots you can find for Sven?”

“Kristoff!”

“Okay, okay, geeze.” He raised his hands in mock defeat. “But really, I’m here for you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

__________________

She knew well that probably hurt him a lot, especially when he proposed to keep their facade going. After all, it was improper for a young man like him to spend time with the princess unless they were to marry or something similar. But it was even more improper for a Queen to love her sister. Certainly, there was precedent but not between sisters.

And yet for a time, all was good. They spent time together, they snuggled and kissed in private. It was easy. They were in love, and that came with some arguments, but nothing was wrong. But then the apathy began to settle in, and Elsa began to almost resent being there.

The change was so subtle, maybe she had no chance at noticing. But maybe there was just that base incompatibility of certain parts of them that they had ignored in their honeymoon phase. At what point had she become upset at the lack of contact between them despite the plethora of time they had? When did Elsa become tired of her presence, annoyed to have company?

She should have capitalized her time when they both lived together. She should have done something, anything other than what they had done. She should have reached out first and communicated. That’s what she had always been told, that communication was key to a relationship. And she failed, hadn’t she? She failed, and she was seeing the consequences of that.

Should have, could have, would have. It was useless now, because the present moment became the past and she did not. In the moment, it did hurt when they weren’t together or if she felt that Elsa would leave her again. And she did, didn’t she? But maybe that was inevitable. Maybe that was healthiest for them both if she was too overbearing and hurt by their childhood to heal while Elsa was still there. Worst of all was the fact that she might have to be okay with that and heal from her own mistakes.

Anna’s hands shook as she tried to steel her nerves and not curl up, crying. She wanted nothing more than to scream and cry and beg in upset. Instead, she raked her nails over her scalp again, relishing in the little grounding the pain provided. This was far too much for one little girl like her to handle.

‘No!’ she screamed mentally. She was a queen, an adult woman, and it was time for her to act like one. This entire mess was her fault, and she had to take responsibility. She could not- would not collapse emotionally in front of her people. Even when her sister had seemingly died, she took the next right step. Even in her deep uncertainty, she willed herself composure until it was over.

There was no use in pitying herself or behaving like she wasn’t the one who instigated this. What she had to do was do better in the future. And thus, she had to relive what went wrong so that she might now do right. It was only what Elsa deserved. And maybe Elsa didn’t deserve to have someone like her, but she would do her best to be the best partner she could be.

And yet, she still couldn’t help but be upset at the rejection.

__________________

She waited in the entrance hall, as was customary. There was nothing quite like watching the grand double doors open to let in Elsa’s figure. The juxtaposition between the massive oak doors and the tiny silhouette of her sister was mesmerizing. It always called to mind a painting where the splash of color drew the eye and allowed the art to unfold from there.

And then they didn’t. She waited, and waited, but there was no Elsa. The grey clouds had coalesced by now and had begun darkening. What caused her to be so late? There had to be a reason for it. Maybe she had gotten caught in some early downpour in the forest?

There had to be a reason. Elsa was not the type to be tardy, so it had to be something else. Still, it irked her some. Couldn’t she have sent a forward letter with Gale informing her that she might be late? Or maybe she was too busy to do that. Maybe she was in danger and it was awful to suspect her.

Anna read and reread the letter, hoping to glean some new meaning out of it. Unfortunately, the letter stayed inert and did not succumb to her wishes. All she could tell was that Elsa was supposed to come at the correct time but was busy. Busy with what? It never clarified, and it was probably rude to ask. Still, it couldn’t hurt to emphasize the importance, right?

But then Elsa became later and later and Anna continued her vigil in the entrance hall. It was foolish really, she ought to be working on things now so that they might have more time later to make up for the time lost. But she still desperately wanted to be there when Elsa arrived so she waited.

Finally, the time came. Anna was twisting her hands and watching the door with aching eyes, hardly daring to blink. 

‘There. Movement. Please, let it be her.’

And it was. Elsa’s face seemed almost haggard in the firelight, though her expression was neutral. She was perfectly dry, and seemed to be alright. That piqued Anna’s curiosity more, but she shoved it down. Anna then smiled and crinkled her eyes, caught between conflicting emotions and genuine gladness. Only the gladness was allowed to shine through.

“Hey you, you’re finally here.”

“Hey, I’m here.”

Such a simple statement. And yet it sucked the wind out of Anna.  The lack of enthusiasm hurt, but she was determined to spend this time well. They greeted each other with a simple peck on the lips.

__________________

What a fool she had been to not say anything then. Should she have called her sister out to prevent what was to happen next? No, that probably would have escalated the conflict sooner than it had. The conflict was inevitable by then. Maybe if they… no. No ‘maybe’s or ‘what if’s. She had to figure out what to do next.

The letter was her hint. Elsa did not want to stay for long, likely because she tired easily of human contact. That had been established. But why did she say nothing in that case? Why did she always shield herself behind excuses of being busy and implications but never statements of how she felt? That wasn’t fair. She’d done her best to interpret them.

No, that wasn’t fair at all. Heat rose unbidden to Anna’s face and her teeth bared themselves in fury as her brow furrowed deeply. How dare she, how dare she! This was not Anna in its entirety! She made mistakes, yes, but so had Elsa! At least she was willing to think back and change her poor behavior!

She wanted to scream again, to shout, to beat her fists against something in fury. Stomping, pacing, clenching her hands until they hurt. It almost felt cathartic to imagine it, but she maintained composure. An adult did not throw fearsome tantrums.

But now her upset morphed into rage and the thoughts spilled into her mind. It wasn’t right that she always blamed herself. It wasn’t right that Elsa never communicated and always locked herself away. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, and she ought to be allowed negative emotion, oughtn’t she?

‘You know that’s unhealthy. But it’s fair, it had to be fair.’

But it wasn’t, she had the right to be angry, right? Elsa may have thought she was doing the best she could, but she hadn’t. Couldn’t she see how much that hurt the people around her? How much it hurt her? She reached out again and again to her sister, trying to help, trying to care, and how many times had it been rejected?

Who else then, could she have blamed? Certainly not her parents. They weren’t the ones who were seemingly mysteriously shunned. They weren’t the ones who were faced with the prospect of being trapped in a gilded cage after being given a taste of freedom.

Spreading blame was wrong, she knew this. It was worthless in such a hapless event like their childhood. But she couldn’t help but have her heart rate rise at the mere thought of Elsa’s actions recently. She ought to know better! 

It simply wasn’t fair. It was not fair. She did her best. Elsa withdrew. She tried to find out what was wrong. Elsa withdrew. Was there nothing she could do that didn’t involve driving her away? And in that instant, less than a fraction of a fraction of a second, she hated Elsa for everything that happened.

The moment ended and she was struck with a bitter sting of remorse that left her insides twisted and hollow. Hatred wouldn’t fix their relationship. Anger wouldn’t either. Neither would self-pity nor self-hatred. The only thing that could fix this was reflection and work. So reflect she would.

__________________

Everything had been going so well. Despite her initial misgivings, Elsa seemed to mellow out and allow herself to be swept up in the games. Anna forgot her concerns and they played, all of them, as a group. When was the last time they had been able to do this? Spend time all together, embrace, and lose herself in Elsa’s arms? When did it become so that their relationship oft lacked such basic touch?

What had gone so wrong?

It mattered not. She enjoyed every stroke from Elsa, every cuddle. She stroked Elsa’s jaw, Elsa played her fingers on the nape of Anna’s neck. The sensation was electrical. They continued such touches throughout the lovely evening and until it was time for Elsa to go.

 Already, Anna ached for the phantom comforts from Elsa, but she walked her to the main hall. There, they spotted black clouds lying in ambush above, and waiting for them to leave. 

They spoke the fateful words, Elsa being the one to ring the fatal doom-toll.

“It looks ready to storm outside.”

“Huh, you think?”

“Yeah, look.”

“Mmm. Does that mean you’ll stay longer?”

“Stay longer?”

“Yes, stay longer.”

__________________

Anna couldn’t help but wince at those words. They circled themselves, round and round in her head. Rumination they called it, but she knew that they would not leave her until her dying day. Powerful was the pain of hypotheticals.

She should have known something was wrong when Elsa became increasingly less receptive to contact. Maybe she should have known something was worse when she openly snuggled. But that didn’t make sense. Elsa had never been reluctant to express love, even if it was difficult at times.

Contact, she suspected, may have been linked with the frequency of seeing her. Elsa’s visits stopped up as if they had become increasingly difficult. It wasn’t like being around her was the issue, even though it clearly was. It seemed that Elsa was reluctant to come, but glad to stay for a time. 

‘But not for longer,’ her brain reminded her.

No, not for longer. That much was clear now. It was upsetting, but she also understood that it must have been one of Elsa’s boundaries that she had broken. Of course it was. She should have known from before. It almost felt like a minefield, blinded as she was from communication. 

She breathed out as she understood. They needed to talk. What mattered is that they talked.

__________________

When Elsa said no, Anna couldn’t help but ask and wheedle for her to stay. Both out of a desire to see her for longer and because it concerned her to see Elsa in what was likely to be a massive storm. It wasn’t like the forest had a roof, and Ahtohallan caused her more worry than not.

Elsa grew increasingly frustrated to the point where they broke into a shouting match. Anna didn’t know whose voice raised first, or why they began shouting anymore. She had run the memory so ragged and remembered it so much that it was hardly more than a blur.

Still, she could remember the intense emotional pain that came with it, raw and jagged. The upset was so severe that she felt sick mid-argument, wishing for anything else, anyone else to be there. The build-up had boiled over and all came crashing down.

At the same time, the clouds decided to drop their heavy yokes and loose the rains upon them. The crash of thunder and flashes of lightning punctuated their furor. They threw insults and upset word, uncaring of the consequences. In that moment, the only objective was to hurt as much as possible.

Nobody intervened, as they let the fight play out. In the end, Elsa stormed out into the heavy rains as Anna called her name with increasing hysteria. She crumpled to the ground in defeat as her senses and rationality returned to her.

__________________

It hurt to remember, she didn’t want to. Anna longed to take the memory and shove it away so that she might be spared the pain and embarrassment of her own childish actions. But that too would be childish, so she instead reflected on it.

Her behavior was wrong. She behaved poorly and broke boundaries in the relationship. Realistically, Elsa should have left her for such things and didn’t. That much was true. Anna had to learn from her mistakes and remake herself into a better person. Someone who could love Elsa without hurting her.

But Elsa wasn’t an angel either. She had failed to communicate. Her silence was inasmuch a sin of inaction as Anna’s was of action. She could not know she had done wrong until she was told by Elsa. Dropping only hints and then blowing up at a person when they misinterpreted them was also wrong.

Anna sighed. She may have been able to recognize that it was not solely her, but she had no control over Elsa either. What she did have control over was herself, and she intended to do the next right thing. What more could she do?

Love took work, and True Love doubly so. She had made a mistake, but she would not cower from her burden. No, she would not do that, not to Elsa. She would fix this, somehow. She would find a way to communicate with her, to reach the same level, and intended to work with her to improve what they somehow broke.

Anna’s heart clenched as she realized that it all balanced on one thing. That Elsa would be willing to extend her hand and meet her halfway. She would do all she could, but there was a very strong possibility that it wouldn’t happen.

It would hurt terribly. She knew that they could have ruined everything forever, and she would have to live with that. Could she live with that? Yes, she had to. For her people, and most of all for herself. Even the largest jagged wounds could heal. But she hoped against hope that Elsa felt the same way.

It seemed an uncertain given with their true love. Of course they would heal, that is why their love was true. But the damage they had unwittingly done due to their inherent differences was large. Could they? It had to be.

But she didn’t have time to think about it any longer. It was time for court to be held, and she would address her problems later. Now the time came for Queen Anna to rule wisely and compassionately. That was a queen’s duty to her people.

As the doors opened to the first petitioner, Anna saw their silhouette.

“…You?”

[kindergarchy]

A Manual For Cleaning Woman by Lucia Berlin

Whenever I feel the need to say something through my writing, I feel naked. Exposed… vulnerable. Not the nicest state to be in. So this is what I, or some of us do: We manipulate, as much as possible. Names altered, punchlines added. We pretend things that we hold dear don’t matter to us. Sometimes, we distance and remove ourselves - so much so that the body of knowledge is no longer recognizable; let alone resemblant of our own story.

(Welcome home, it’s safer now.)

But that’s not the case with Lucia Berlin. No one is saying that her works are 100% autobiographical… the umbrella of fiction her book falls under has allowed her to add a touch of, well, transformation of the truth (she refused to call it an “alteration of the truth”). Nevertheless, Berlin never plays it safe. She is never guarded in her stories. Upon reading her I get the feeling that although there are parts she might have preferred for the world to not know, she is not hiding them. Awkward details are dwelled upon sufficiently, discomfort never being glossed over. Pain - whether inflicted by or upon her, so much of it. Unafraid to bare it all, Berlin in her selected stories is doing what the opposite of most of us are doing. Being naked. Vulnerable. Human.

The thing about a collection of short stories is there must be a common thread connecting all of them - recurring themes, style of writing, a common voice - and yet they need to differ or be disjointed enough so that there is some space to breathe, a room for variation. This is why collections of short stories are not for everyone. You take a break and you start again. Just when you start investing in the storyline or the characters, the stories are brought to an end. It is emotionally and mentally taxing. Not the case with Lucia Berlin.

At first, perhaps, the book seems like a series of well-written stories: Neat, vivid, electric, expressive, introspective yet absorptive, calm yet unrestrained. A few stories down the road, patterns emerge: Alcoholic mother, dying sister, passionate affairs, troubled families, food stamps, school bullies, abusive men. All told in a very savory manner. Berlin relishes each and every detail, milking the most out of life. And then you realize all along it’s her life we’ve been reading.

Maybe I am biased… Mexico city is one of my favorite places to visit and I love the folks in Berkeley. Although either way I cannot imagine people getting bored from being told about these places. I mean, how could they? These places are bursting with life. Joie de vivre!

She forced herself to relax, to enjoy langostinos broiled in garlic. Mariachis were strolling from table to table, passed hers by when they saw her frozen expression. Sabor a ti. The taste of you. Imagine an American song about how somebody tasted? Everything in Mexico tasted. Vivid garlic, cilantro, lime. The smells were vivid. Not the flowers, they didn’t smell at all. But the sea, the pleasant smell of decaying jungle. Rancid odor of the pigskin chairs, kerosene-waxed tiles, candles.

But there is a price for that liveliness. Reading Berlin was a hard slap across my face. Things that I thought were cool back in Berkeley and Mexico City, have real consequences on people’s lives. I remember when I thought a text exchange with a stranger that I met on the street was funny:

“Hey man amanda here! Met you a while back near shattuck market. Got some of the stuff you told me last time?”

“Sorry this his aunt he got in santa rita.”

"Oh alright when is he coming back? He didn’t bring his phone?”

“Don’t no yet.”

How naive of me. At first I thought Santa Rita was a place like Santa Monica, until I googled… and giggled. I told my friends about it. The aunt’s broken English, the coincidence. “So funny right?” It makes me sick now… There is nothing funny about someone giving up a share of his life, most probably due to social injustice and a crooked federal prison system. This is how I feel about a lot of people who think black culture is cool with almost no context... We can think so because we are watching from a comfortable seat. To us they are a spectacle, a sight to behold. A band of tough fellas under the flag of counterculture. We glorify them, the “street” culture, unaware of or heavily underestimate the day-to-day suffering. In Indonesia we would say, “Ngomong doang sih enak (more or less translates to “Talk is cheap”).” In Good or Bad, this sentiment is illustrated clearly:

“See, they like you,” Miss Dawson said. “Doesn’t that make you feel good?”

I knew that they liked my shoes and stockings, my red Chanel jacket.

Miss Dawson and her friends were exhilarated as we drove away, chatting happily. I was sickened and depressed.

“What good does it do to feed them once a week? It doesn’t make a dent in their lives. They need more than biscuits once a week, for Lord’s sake.”

Right. But until the revolution came and everything was shared you had to do whatever helped at all.

“They need to know somebody realizes they live out here. We tell them that soon things will change. Hope. It’s about hope,” Miss Dawson said.

I’m a bit of both of these characters, currently. Scared of not doing enough, sometimes I end up doing nothing at all.

Lucia Berlin is the only white person I’ve read so far who has successfully managed to talk in depth about it in an immersive and non-condescending manner, probably simply because she has lived through it. There are no “white people suffer too” or “it’s all in your head” sentiments. She knows, and she’s telling us these. Reading her has made it more difficult for me to react to these issues, because I get a good glimpse of their world and there is probably nothing I can do about it. My defensiveness for the minorities is not out of the need to become politically correct.

Addiction plays a central role to Berlin’s stories, summarized by one of the strongest lines in this book: Of course by this time I had realized all the reasons why he couldn’t stop the truck, because by this time I was an alcoholic. There is probably not much known about alcoholism, people thinking that it’s less harmful than illegal drug addiction, or that if you drink a lot it means you are an alcoholic. I think the main thing that separates an alcoholic from someone who loves to drink is in fact, unrelated to alcohol. It’s what they do with the rest of their time. The Rat Park experiment came to mind: If you are “caged”, the likelihood of you consuming and eventually becoming physically dependant on your substance of choice increases dramatically. Not when you have the option of spending your time in a “Rat Park,” full of toys, friends, and other pleasantries. Lucia Berlin’s characters do not have the luxury of a “Rat Park.”

In this book most of the gems are placed beyond halfway through the book. Just when I get blown by one of the stories, it is outdone in the next story. My favorites: Friends, Melina, Grief, Fool to Cry, Good and Bad, So Long, Let Me See You Smile, Mama, Silence, Mijito, Here It Is Saturday.

Berlin is a master of phrases, they dance. My favorites:

The absence of noise was what so evocative of her childhood, of another era. No sirens, no traffic, no radios. A horsefly buzzed against the window, snip of scissors, the rhythm of the two men’s voices, an electric fan with dirty ribbons flying rustled old magazines. The barber ignored her, not out of rudeness but from courtesy.

and

“I pity you. All your life you are going to be paralyzed by What Is Done, by what people tell you you should think or do. I do not dress to please others. It is a very hot day, and I feel comfortable in this dress.”

“Well… it makes me not comfortable. People will say rude things to us. It is different here, from the United States…”

“The best thing that could happen to you would be for you to be uncomfortable once in a while.”

and

Jesse made everybody feel important. He wasn’t kind. Kind is a word like charity; it implies an effort. Like that bumper sticker about random acts of kindness. It should mean how someone always is, not an act he chooses to do. Jesse had a compassionate curiosity about everyone. All my life I have felt that I didn’t really exist at all. He saw me. He saw who I was. In spite of all the dangerous things we did, being with him was the only time I was ever safe.

and

These are pointless questions. The only reason I have lived so long is that I let go of my past. Shut the door on grief on regret on remorse. If I let them in, just one self-indulgent crack, whap, the door will fling open gales of pain ripping through my heart blinding my eyes with shame breaking cups and bottles knocking down jars shattering windows stumbling bloody on spilled sugar and broken glass terrified gagging until with a final shudder and sob I shut the heavy door. Pick up the pieces one more time.

Maybe this is not so dangerous a thing to do, to let the past in with the preface “What if?” What if I had spoken with Paul before he left? What if I had asked for help? What if I had married H? Sitting here, looking out the window toward the tree where now there are no branches or crows, the answers to each “what if” are strangely reassuring. They could not have happened, this what if, that what if. Everything good or bad that has occurred in my life has been predictable and inevitable, especially the choices and actions that have made sure I am utterly alone.