invitation, but he did not courteously allow the kiss and then gracefully bow out. He returned the kiss. Over and over. And it would be the first of many nights that I would spend in his basement apartment, only ever kissing. Nothing more, except perhaps a bit of fondling. He was the only man since Cade that never asked for more. The first man to understand that although I had reached sensual maturity, I was waiting for more than he could ever give me. And though he was sure he had taken nothing, nor was his intent to, my life would never be the same. I would remember for an eternity the two most important kisses I had ever known. That first innocent kiss with an experienced college playboy who walked away a gentleman, and my first kiss with the man I had fallen hopelessly in love with. But try as I may, I cannot remember the first kiss that I shared with the man who is now my husband. The one to whom I gave all.
***
In this quest to discover external beauty at thirty-five, certain comfort items had to be purged from my identity. Flip flops were one such item. Although I was convinced I that I was born in heels, and I wore them faithfully to church and work, as soon as I walked in the door, I would strip out of my dress or skirt and heels, and don a pair of faithful pajamas and flip flops. The nice thing about flip flops was that they could worn with that same lovely cotton skirt on a weekend, and there was a certain liberation afforded by the thin layer of plastic standing between naked feet and ground. I would have rather died in college than wear a pair of flip flops. I always felt that they had a slothful and grungy look, generally associated with multi-pierced girls in dread locks and dirty jeans. Instead, during the warm months I would wear espadrilles which afforded similar comfort with the sexy look of a wedge heel.
Somewhere between motherhood and depression, flip flops became my every day shoe during the spring, summer and fall. Coupled with frayed pajama pants in the middle of the day, I realize this is how Gregory came to view me. Pristine at church and work, yet unkempt and generally sloppy in the home; his space. How then could I ever hope to keep his attention and respect when I was invisible in his presence. I didn't always wear the flip flops though. I would kick off my heels and plod around the house barefoot and happy. There was a time that I didn't own flip flops in the winter. One cold January night changed that for me.
"It is OUR computer!" I shouted, furious that he was monopolizing it for the duration of his day off. I wanted to check my e-mails, ten minutes, and he had refused to get off, flat out telling me no. "You have no right to tell me I cannot use it." That was it. Sam peers up from his tiny red Radio Flyer tricycle, not quite two years old, distracted by my unusually raised voice. Gregory lunges out of his chair and swipes the keyboard to the floor, instantly enraged. "Rights? Rights? You think you dictate what rights I do and do not have?! This is MY home, I am the head of this house, and you do as I say, not the other way around."
I pick Sam up, deposit him in his crib and close the door. Reeling around the corner, I screamed back, ready to take him on. I've got news for you. This is just as much my house as yours and I'll do as I please, and use what I want to use in it!"
"You have two choices," he responds, his jaw set. You either willingly leave this house right now, or I will throw you out."
I stand, unmoved by his threat. Daring him. He is instantly at my side, cupping, rather than grabbing my arm, cognizant of the implications of physical violence. I know that if I refused to budge, he will pick me up and carry me down the stairs, and I prefer to walk on my own. I allow him to painlessly coerce me down the stairs and out the door, into the cold January night, in my bare feet. The door locks behind me. I walk next door to the neighbor's house, and call the police. Gregory
***
In this quest to discover external beauty at thirty-five, certain comfort items had to be purged from my identity. Flip flops were one such item. Although I was convinced I that I was born in heels, and I wore them faithfully to church and work, as soon as I walked in the door, I would strip out of my dress or skirt and heels, and don a pair of faithful pajamas and flip flops. The nice thing about flip flops was that they could worn with that same lovely cotton skirt on a weekend, and there was a certain liberation afforded by the thin layer of plastic standing between naked feet and ground. I would have rather died in college than wear a pair of flip flops. I always felt that they had a slothful and grungy look, generally associated with multi-pierced girls in dread locks and dirty jeans. Instead, during the warm months I would wear espadrilles which afforded similar comfort with the sexy look of a wedge heel.
Somewhere between motherhood and depression, flip flops became my every day shoe during the spring, summer and fall. Coupled with frayed pajama pants in the middle of the day, I realize this is how Gregory came to view me. Pristine at church and work, yet unkempt and generally sloppy in the home; his space. How then could I ever hope to keep his attention and respect when I was invisible in his presence. I didn't always wear the flip flops though. I would kick off my heels and plod around the house barefoot and happy. There was a time that I didn't own flip flops in the winter. One cold January night changed that for me.
"It is OUR computer!" I shouted, furious that he was monopolizing it for the duration of his day off. I wanted to check my e-mails, ten minutes, and he had refused to get off, flat out telling me no. "You have no right to tell me I cannot use it." That was it. Sam peers up from his tiny red Radio Flyer tricycle, not quite two years old, distracted by my unusually raised voice. Gregory lunges out of his chair and swipes the keyboard to the floor, instantly enraged. "Rights? Rights? You think you dictate what rights I do and do not have?! This is MY home, I am the head of this house, and you do as I say, not the other way around."
I pick Sam up, deposit him in his crib and close the door. Reeling around the corner, I screamed back, ready to take him on. I've got news for you. This is just as much my house as yours and I'll do as I please, and use what I want to use in it!"
"You have two choices," he responds, his jaw set. You either willingly leave this house right now, or I will throw you out."
I stand, unmoved by his threat. Daring him. He is instantly at my side, cupping, rather than grabbing my arm, cognizant of the implications of physical violence. I know that if I refused to budge, he will pick me up and carry me down the stairs, and I prefer to walk on my own. I allow him to painlessly coerce me down the stairs and out the door, into the cold January night, in my bare feet. The door locks behind me. I walk next door to the neighbor's house, and call the police. Gregory
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