Indian Souvenir

I am creatively destructive.

When I actually put into words and time frames and names, things that so long I didn’t; I tend to destroy it all.

Take for example; I've never called him my boyfriend. Never my lover. Not friend.

He is all this and separately so at different contexts and periods and places. I like the namelessness and the vagueness of stuff, which allows the independence of thought.

But there are moments when he introduces me to his friends saying, "She is my Indian friend", that I get all ruffled.

So what does that mean, he has one like me in every nationality? I am but one of those pieces in his international wardrobe?

But I know that I am the only one reading so much into it.
He doesn’t realize what train of thought that careless line made me take.
Nevertheless I turn a little cold, a little distant.

He notices and asks, "Is everything alright?”

I lie, "Yes".

Somehow that lie actually makes it all ok.



I am on page 6, have been over a week. Moon-Tiger by Penelope Lively. Every time I try reading a few words, I hope they string together to make some sense. They don’t.

I sit staring at the night lamp beside my bed, plumped up 3 pillows under my head and look at the phone I never pick to make the call.

I am one of those countless modern women who have moved on from yesterday but not yet reached tomorrow.