Sara the writer.

My last piece of “young adult”
before I turn mid-twenties
a scoop of blackberry ice cream

purple glistening as it melts in the sun
spooning the creamy delight in to my eager mouth
where it turns to syrup on my tongue

and sits
until my saliva begins to lessen the taste
offering a bite to my companion out of sheer politeness

I can feel the sugar slip-slide through my veins
leaving behind a residue that won’t be removed
from all three yoga sessions this week

let my veins overflow
let it drip onto my hands
and the sidewalk

I dig my spoon into the tangy cream
and throw the rest away
as a middle aged jello mold wobbles by

She always wore berets in the winter
And we made it a point of celebrating Bastille Day
Anually. Always. 
Some vague obsession with France and revolution
I wish I could take her there.

We would wear dresses
Eat only baguettes
Smile and wave and laugh as we walk away without giving those men our American names. 

She’s more unattached than even I
Flipping from burning devotion to proud solitude
without blinking or thinking or remembering for too long why we ever stayed in the first place

We would thrive in those streets
And between four walls of a shared studio with enough money for coffee and thrift store scarves
We would fight and clash and thrive, and swim with the kind of love only friendship can supply

She would leave, or I would leave eventually.
(pretty girls are so rarely alone)
And we would move on and remember
Always remember
Sleeping on the floor and living off the excitement of our struggle 

Have you ever had a dream where you were happy? Truly, genuinely, beamingly happy. Sitting in a field of poppies atop a picnic blanket in one of the prettier dresses you’ve ever worn, hair all curls and sunshine and warmth, smiling and laughing alongside the only person who has ever made you laugh this hard or feel this real or want this much to be alive. This person who knows your heart like he knows the lines on his own hands and who you know you would feel so empty and lost without. The person who truly completes your life in ways no one and no thing ever could. 

Have you then woken up? Alone, wrapped up in your blanket with your arms clutched tight around yourself, in a dimly sunlit room to the sound of a blaring alarm clock and the prospect of another day that is too much like yesterday to notice the differences? Knowing with a deep certainty that you will never see that person again, or hear that crystal laugh, or feel that close to anyone again in your whole life. And if you have, did you cry? Or did you just sigh heavily, shuffle out of bed and in to your slippers, in to the shower, in to your clothes, and out the door? And if …. and if someone came to you and said that you could go back to that moment, that you could have it forever, would you? Would you turn your back on everyone in your waking life, on every stupid obligation, every pointless interaction that could never compare to the one in your dream, and live like that forever?

I would.

“I can’t tell you,” he said with the fierceness she had grown so accustomed to. 

“I have to know,” she whispered, her voice quivering with the horror of never knowing. “Besides, you brought it up. You didn’t have to do that. Now it isn’t fair. The one thing I’ve ever needed and you won’t tell me?”

There was a silence. A thirty second eternity type silence.

“Please,” she added.

“If I tell you I have to leave. If I tell you I can never see you again.”

Her heart jumped to her throat, crashed in to her belly. Her hands began to shake and she felt tears forcing their way to the backs of her eyes. One or the other, she thought. My love or my life.

“I have to know.”

His eyes widened for the smallest moment. Too quickly for anyone who wasn’t completely in tune with his facial expressions to ever notice, but long enough for her to know the damage was done. There was no turning back now. She had pushed him away and he would never love her again, would never touch her, kiss her, look at her, or think of her again. In a flash of pain and overwhelming loss she regretted her words, bit her lip, let a tear escape to slide down her face. But he was already turned from her, halfway gone from her life forever. His back to her, he turned his face slightly, and without so much as a glance at her he told her what she had needed to know for twenty-four years.

The day he stopped finding her hair, he also stopped loving her. This was nothing he noticed at the time. That morning he had gotten ready for class in the same sleepy haze he always did, had turned in an essay, sat through two lectures, eaten a tomato and avocado sandwich for lunch, studied at a cafe close to campus, gotten dinner while watching the game with a friend, and then spent the evening watching a movie and browsing the internet. When he had brushed his teeth and lay down to sleep he realized that no long and winding golden hairs had found their way on to his clothes that day, but this was just a passing thought, and was interrupted by sleep.

-Sara Harless

“I’m going to eat this whole pizza” she whispered to herself. He was supposed to be there an hour ago. He had phoned to say that he was running late, but that she should go ahead and order them a large pizza of her choosing. She had ritualistically picked out the toppings, mentally crossing out the ones she knew he despised, and put together what she believed to be a fantastic looking pizza. Juicy slices of tomato, artichoke hearts, feta cheese, and spinach covered the surface of the pie. It had arrived hot, the gooey cheese almost sliding off the sides, and had slowly taken on a “leftovers” quality as she continued to wait. She glanced out the large windows one last time before picking up her first delightful slice. She took her first strategic bite, making sure to get some of each of the toppings, chewed politely, dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin and then attacked. She finished three slices before she had realized it. Enjoying them in a way she had forgotten was possible. With no one to watch her chew too large mouthfuls, no one to notice if a bit of sauce fell upon her lips, no one to care if she ate more than two pieces. Reaching for a fourth piece with the determination of a man crawling through an escape tunnel he has dug out with his own fingernails, she realized she was quite full. “No matter,” she thought to herself, “best not ruin the moment with a belly ache”. She accepted a to-go box from the waitress, placed the slices in, paid the check, left a much greater tip than her husband would have, walked to her car, and drove herself home. Two hours later, when he arrived home, there was a box of pizza on the counter with a note attached. Written in the familiar curl he knew so well, the note read: “I saved you some pizza, it’s quite delicious. Heat it in the oven so the crust will retain it’s crunch. I’ve gone to Abingdon to visit mother. I expect I’ll be back within the week, then again I may be running late.” 

-Sara Harless

One day she took to the sky. It wasn’t something she had really thought about, nor was it something she had tried or even wished for. One day she stood at the halfway point between her car and the door of her apartment and she decided that flying might be nice, so she leapt, and then she flew. It hadn’t been a good day. It started out small with the incorrect milk to sugar ratio in her iced coffee and ended with the most overwhelming feeling of loss she had ever felt. They hadn’t been together long, really. Three months was nothing. She’s had longer, better, wiser, more fulfilling relationships before, but this one seemed strikingly sad. Perhaps she had hit a certain number that her brain hadn’t caught on to yet. Perhaps this was the fiftieth failed relationship (she had honestly stopped keeping track years ago, throwing the silly idea that the number of people you’ve cared for somehow defined something about you completely out of the window with other useless things like gender roles and banana peels), or maybe it was the twenty-sixth and the root of the sadness was something else. Maybe she had really hoped for something good with this one, or maybe she just knew that she would miss the casual and constant adoration he sent her. Maybe she was still feeling tired from the weekend’s road trip. Whatever the reason, Ruby decided that she no longer wanted the bag of groceries in her hand. She no longer wanted to respond to text messages, study for Sociology tests, smile through a night of boring chatter, wake up with back pain, or eat french fries for dinner. She had had enough, and so she flew.

-Sara Harless

I’m sick to my stomach.
My fists clench, release, they grasp on to anything with the death grip I know so well.
My eyes burn, but don’t water.
I can tell myself a thousand times “you’re fine, it’s best”,
but the gut-jerk of loss does not care about my reasoning.
One day I might forget why, and I’ll wonder.
I’ll think “all those mornings in the warm cocoon of arms and blankets and sunlight, all the nights eating ice cream in your floor talking over spoonfuls about everything that crossed our minds”
I’ll think: “why did you do it?”
I won’t remember the noons, the evenings, the rush-around that came from your easy lifestyle (so harshly opposite mine)
I might even forget the urgency that accompanied the nothing you had to lose. 
My mouth feels dry, thoughts of food make me nauseous,
My mind feels vacant, as if spring cleaning left me remembering how it had looked before the dust settled in,
My numb switches to worry and back again,
I just left my baby. 

I woke up with the sun in my hair.
That window takes up exactly half of your bedroom,
And when I awoke I could feel those familiar golden white rays beaming down on me.
For the second time in our new interaction I wanted the sight to see us both.
A small photo or a soundless video of us laying there, un-moving.
My back against your chest and those arms wrapped all the way around me (because for once I didn’t pull away in the night).
I stirred myself awake, snuck out from under your arm and perched on your desk chair,
My open book in front of me I stole glances back at you as I forced French cognates in to my head.
Oh, Academia, what a horrible companion you are.
Taking up all of my time, pulling me away with your impatient insistence.
I finally gave up, jumped on to the bed, startling you awake.
So unlike me to encourage morning interaction, to wake a sleeping tiger who I know will demand attention, distract me, break the morning silence,
But I kissed your cheek, pulled at your hands, dodged your grip as you tried to pull me beside you.
“No,” I smiled to you,
“If we lay back down we won’t have time.”
But down we went.
I bribed you in to coffee and bagels.
You moaned your jovial resistance, but stood up all the same. 
And as we drove for coffee I wondered to myself
“When did I let you in?”

I always wondered what they would feel like.
These lines.
Signs of growth, of the dreaded word:
Aging. 
And now, I know.
There, in the mirror, confronting me with their obviousness,
Are the lines my mother has along her collar bones.
She says it’s the way we sleep.
Curled up in to ourselves,
Stomach down, arms folded beneath us.
Perhaps that’s the case.
Or perhaps I’m feeling what she felt at twenty four,
What my grandmother felt.
The knowing.
The dawning clarity of the realization
That you are not immune to this aging.