Standing at the kitchen counter, listening to Across the Universe, and cutting French bread into cubes. A small dish of olive oil and balsamic vinegar sits to one side.

The wind is restless outside, unsure of which way to go, making the trees quake.

Rain is coming, and I'm not looking forward to it. It means a muddy night in the infield, and another load of laundry tomorrow to clean my show blacks.

I am thinking of the nature of love and lust again, and a great black hate wells up in me.

I hate love. I hate what it does to me. I hate the helplessness, and the tears.

And yet, I am a junky, unable to say no when I am tossed a scrap of affection.

~

My hands are full with my backpack and my empty cookie tins.

"Thanks for the ride home," I tell Steve and Tyne. They wave and do the hand equivalent of goodbye hugs, a fond squeeze of the fingers on my arm.

"Bye Mike," I say, and impulsively press my cheek against his shoulder.

"Bye Rosie," he says, and I feel his cheek press against the top of my head.

As Neil Stephenson once wrote, my heart did a weak flip-flop like a bunny in a ziplock bag.

I maintained contact two seconds too long for a mere friendly gesture, but he will not notice.

~

I have finished my bread, and cleaned out the oil dish.

Across the Universe is still playing, scraping across my heartstrings like a file on a violin.

I think about my two casual lovers.

I probe my romantic feelings towards them, but I come up lacking.

I do not want to date either of them, but their friendship I enjoy.

And sometimes all I want is someone to hold me and tell me that everything is going to be all right.

~

Walking to the train, after work. Drunks stumble along around me, a sea of jeans and cowboy hats and frantic giggling.

They fed us beer after work, a pat on the head for a job well done. Alexander Keiths and Budweiser.

Neither my drink of choice, but beer is beer is beer.

I am buzzing a little on one quickly consumed Bud, headphones on and Shawn Mullins purring in my ears.

Suddenly a lyric strikes me:

Is it all in my head? Is it all in my head? Can everything be all right without me knowing?

It echoes what my father said to me once:

"Rosie. It's all in your head."

And you know, I'm rather inclined to believe him.

.

Rosie.

Before&After