My name is Ashley. I'm all about women with tattoos, Augusten Burroughs, naked bodies and coffee. I'm a writer, all of these words are apart of me and my story that is still a work in progress. Professional memoirist with a splash of make believe. Yep thats meee.

When I broke up with my ex, when I fell out of love, I began to fall in love with women. Not a single woman, but all women. The way their bodies were all unique and beautiful. The way their chests warmed me like a blanket my grandma had made me for Christmas before she died. The way their vaginas opened like a beautiful shell on the beach and became my destiny. The way their skin was soft and wet like a rainstorm in july. The way way we all fit together and served a purpose. The way we held each other in the grass as the jaws of life pried open steel. The way she prayed for me, her heart aching for me the way the leaves cracked breaking open and reaching out like the branches above our heads as we swayed back and forth. The way we protect each other, like mother bats’ wings encircling their babies as they hung from wires in the sky. The way she held my hand in the forrest and I surrendered to her whispers of the Dalai Lama, taking in the love that fell from her magic fingers intertwined with mine and feeling the acceptance of the moment exuding from her human flesh. The way they bore their scars like moonbeams silencing the devils tortured moans of hate.The way they moved through time and space and bodies like an apparition in a Victorian novel. The way they shared their lives and brought courage through their eyes like beautiful brown violins madly striking their bow. The way they spoke, their lips opening and closing like swinging blinds letting sunshine through the spaces in my rib cage. The way they anointed my head with wisdom and power, sprinkling the tips of my hair like a ballerina pirouetting on a stage. The way they wrote like the finest emeralds escaping their aching pores. The way they played, their laughter singing like a song; Oh mama, rock me. The way they cried, their sadness lingered in tears so sacred I wished I could live inside them. The way they touched, their flames of hope burning my skin like a bonfire in an Arizona dessert. The way they kissed, their lips softer than a fairy, it’s wings beating against time like love does. The way they taught, their hearts dripping for me like an ice cube on my destructive wounded soul until I could feel again.           

Last year, my friend Cathryn introduced me to a spoken word poet Andrea Gibson and since then she has become the love of my life. I listen to Andrea Gibson in the morning, I listen to Andrea Gibson in the afternoon, I listen to Andrea Gibson as I close my eyes and let her words fill me. I have memorized her poems and say them sometimes when I go for a walk. There are just so, so many sentences of hers and descriptions that I like. I introduce Andrea to others, spreading her like Cathryn gave her to me. They do not share my fascination. (My mom thinks she has mother issues because she is a butch lesbian that wondered about her mother’s joy when she said her daughters name for the very first time.) But I am completley and totally in love with Andrea. If a woman ever said the things that escape Andrea’s mouth to me, I would marry her, give her my kidney, kill her evil stepbrother- I would do anything. Her words, her actions, make her the most beautiful woman to me.          

Have you ever had a defining moment? One that shaped you, or molded your core? Maybe it was the time you lost your virginity- the smell of gasoline and summer heat embedded in the plush leather seats, or maybe it was the day you got accepted to med school and your mother’s joy at the fat letter folded crisply in your hand. My defining moment came cleaning the men’s bathroom in Chico’s mini golf emporium. I arrived to work early in the standard chartreuse safari outfit where the owner Mark was filling paperwork. Mark had the voice of a man that chain smoked the only way a seventy year old father of four could chain-smoke.

 “Clean the men’s room, Grace. And bring a mop, It’s like a god damn Jackson Pollock painting in there,” Mark said.

 There was just something about mini golf that made people shit themselves. In the past month I have worked at Chico’s, there have been six accidents- 2 of which were reported, the rest discovered by a 16 year old with an eye patch. Last week I found three pairs of underwear on the green.

As I walked to the men’s room I pictured Dr. Walberg’s face. “Feel the fear and do it anyway” she would always say. “Feelings are not facts.” I felt very disgusted opening the wooden door and the bathroom was indeed pretty gnarly. Sometimes psychiatrists just don’t know shit. I had been seeing Dr. Wahlberg since October for my alcoholism, and my problems with my (ex) boyfriend Jack. Jack and I had irreconcilable differences. He was a quiet unassuming firefighter that wanted to marry me, Kelly foreman, a watercolor painter.  I was a lying, drunk lesbian whose real name was Grace Heply. I had met Jack at the height of my illness, when all of my money went to the bar, and beer cans crowded my floor. Spiders that weren’t there scrambled on the wall, and I could feel my heart skip beats in my chest. I was on the verge of death when Jack sauntered up to the bar and bought me a drink- a vodka and cranberry.

“You’re really pretty” He said.

I took a sip from my straw, laughing. “ Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. ” I was lonely, I had just had a fight with my father about my grades- I wasn’t going to class that much. It cut in on my drinking time. For some reason, I told Jack about it.

“If I was your father, baby, I would love you so much. I’d probably want to fuck you too.”

Jack put his big hand on my leg then, journeying up my thigh. As long as he bought me another drink, he could do whatever he wanted.  Everything was popping and slow. As he got out his wallet to pay for the drinks I saw a picture of a baby.

“You gotta kid ?” I said.

“That’s my boy. He died last September. Strep throat.”  He was a cutie in teddy bear footsie pajamas. I had always wanted a son. Little boys were so much easier than girls. I wondered if my dad ever kept a picture of me in his wallet. He didn’t consider me his daughter anymore. He told me it was impossible to love a pervert.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s funny… I hardly knew him. His mother gave him up for adoption without me knowing, but god…I miss him. I miss him so much.”

“You’really nice. He woulda liked you.” I slurred. Suddenly we were kissing. I don’t know who leaned in first, but his lips were softer than I imagined. I kissed him for my father, who had dreamed of me marring the boy next door and going to dental school. I kissed him for his baby, imagining his little boy was a kindergartner who wrote poems covered in macaroni. I kissed him for his little boy’s mother and pictured her naked and in my arms, the morning sun glistening in her golden blonde hair as she said “Hello, darling.” Jack kissed me harder as the woman took my nipple in her mouth. I lost my balance and fell into him, the barstool hitting the floor with a clang. I was dancing with spiders when we reached Jack’s apartment and he carried me through the threshold like a Disney princess.

“I’ve never had sex with a man before” I said. “You’re like a naked mole rat.”

Jack laughed out loud as if this was the funniest thing he had ever heard, and climbed on top of me. He was inside me, but I didn’t feel him- I was numb. With each thrust, I felt myself disappearing until blackness surrounded me. When I woke up, Jack was holding me.

“You came everywhere.” He said. I sat up and looked at the huge puddle on the mattress. I was about to tell him it was probably pee, but Jack grabbed me and pulled me on top of him. I hadn’t noticed at the bar, but his smile was kind of nice. It reminded me of my Dad, when my dad still loved me, before he had found ‘The Joys of Lesbian sex’ underneath my bed and my mom died. Nothing was the same with us anymore. I missed my Dad like swallow tails missed the trees. I should have just grabbed my clothes and left but Jack’s smile was like a warm cup of tea to soothe my twisted stomach of a life. “So what’s your story?” Jack said. He played with my hair like my dad used to and I relaxed into him.  I looked across his room to his bookcase where I saw a Grace Kelly Biography. I liked the name Kelly. Kelly was the name of a ditzy girl who wore pink, and lost her flip flops on the beach- not buy crack from a chick named Atlanta and wake up naked on one. I didn’t want to be Grace anymore. Grace was fucked up. I hated Grace.

“I’m Kelly” I said.

   And so, I became Kelly- the nonsmoking, drug free, heterosexual social drinker. My favorite color was blue, I loved country music, and proverbs 3:11. I made up great stories, and realized that I wanted to be a writer- Jack was my biggest fan. He always urged me on with my masterpieces about my childhood and my awkward teen years as the leader of the color guard. I knew what he wanted and I gave it to him. I even went to church with him, hiding the shame between my legs with tears streaming down my face. Jack said It was good. “Jesus was getting to you.” I couldn’t lose him- he had grown to be my best friend, my salvation. My dad was thrilled that I was done with “that weird poetry and women phase” and played along. I made him slippers, and vegan lasagna, and took care of his dog Hemingway. The problem was Jack didn’t want someone to cook for him, or knit him slippers, he wanted to have sex. 

“I’m just not that sexual of a person.” I told Dr.Wahlberg during our group session.

“I walked in on you masturbating two hours ago!” Jack said. “That little shit dog gets closer to her pussy than me.”

I loved Jack’s dog, in fact, that was the only reason I stayed with him. Hemingway was a little black terrier like Toto from The Wizard of Oz. Jack used to yell at me because I called him Toto all the time. The way he responded so quickly to it, made me think that Hemingway was lost like me. At night when Jack would turn on Barry white and light candles, Hemingway would “coincidentally” have a bathroom emergency and we would go for a nice brisk four hour run. By the time we got back, Jack would be asleep on the couch, a carton of melted Ben & Jerry’s and a playboy on the coffee table, and some dirty tissues scattered on the floor. Hemingway and I would take a shower, then we would take the playboy and snuggle. We both had a thing for blondes.

“Kelly” Dr. Wahlberg repeated my name and I turned from looking out the window to face her.

“Hm?”

Dr. Wahlberg looked at me, her blue TALK ABOUT IT pen moving rapidly. She reminded me of a cheerleader I had tricked into sleeping with me in high school. She was blonde and delicate with ears like seashells. I loved her ears. I wanted to whisper my feelings in them and nibble the lobes like Hemingway nibbled at cardboard boxes.

“What are you thinking?” Dr. Wahlberg said. “Let me inside of you”

‘I’d be glad to’. I thought. I crossed my legs and sat up. I suppose it was rather politically incorrect to be attracted to your therapist, but so was pretending to be Kelly Foreman. I didn’t know who Kelly was, but she wasn’t a person in a wallet. She was a liar and a pervert disguised in a dream like a red herring. I wish I hadn’t made such a mess of Grace and that my dad loved me regardless of who I dated. Maybe he wouldn’t hate me- whoever I was anymore. I couldn’t be Kelly Foreman, and I couldn’t be Grace Hepley either- I was trapped in a place where I didn’t belong, building a life with a man I didn’t love.

“I’ve never been proud of who I am” I said.

“Feelings are not facts” Dr. Wahlberg said. “But tell me more.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack said.

“I’m- I’m not home to me.” I could feel a lump in the back of my throat rising and bring sticky hot tears. I got up and left the counseling room, running for the car where I threw up orange chunks. Jack followed shortly, gently holding my hand while he drove us home. Kelly’s boyfriend was a sweet guy, he deserved better. He made me a grilled cheese and served it to me on the couch.

“How could you feel at home on that quack’s couch?” Jack said. He set the grilled cheese neatly on the coffee table as I took my meds. “Stop! Don’t take them, you don’t need them!”

The doctor had prescribed me Prozac to balance me out. Jack didn’t like them, but they silenced everything. They helped me. Jack kissed me then; his lips were flat like crepes. Jack had bought me cream for my acne, but all of the chemicals from his job and the excess comfort eating had caused him to have pink nodules all over his face and a slight muffin top over his jeans. Jack got down on the couch, kissing me, kissing me. I was numb again as Jack’s lips journeyed down my stomach. I looked up at the ceiling, counting the tiles. “I guess, I just don’t like myself” I said. Jack continued, his hands undoing the button on my jeans and yanking down my elastic underwear. “I’m never okay with me just the way that I am,” The moment I said it, it was like a realization- an epiphany and a coming home party all in itself. Suddenly, I felt Jack’s tongue inside me and jerked his head, slapping him. “I just told you I’m never okay, and you fucking go down on me?” I said. 

“It always relaxes you and puts you to sleep. God, that really hurt!” Jack rubbed his neck dramatically and tried to reach for me.

“No!”

“Babe, I’m sorry… Just eat your grilled cheese.” He smiled and the moonlight caught a shimmer of one of his facial mountains. His smile used to be like Space Mountain a curvy ride, full of hope and wonder and the main attraction of Tomorrow land-  but now it made me nauseous. 

“You make me nauseous,” I said.

“What?”

“You make me physically sick just looking at you. I became a vegan for you, and you’re not anymore, and I still am. I used that Obage dermatologist crap because you told me to, and you can’t even wash your own god damn face!”

“Kelly, you’re just emotional because you’re taking this shit!” Jack said. He grabbed the orange bottle off the coffee table and threw it.

“My name isn’t fucking Kelly.” I said. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

“My name is Grace Heply, my favorite color is orange, and I am an alcoholic.”

“What-“

“I used to go to the store and buy three twelve packs. I’ve had so many blackouts I don’t even remember places I’ve lived. I’ve fucking woken up naked on a beach in a foreign country, I’ve slept with hundreds of women-”

“You what?!“

“I’m gay. My mom was okay with it, but after she died my dad kicked me out, he said I wasn’t his daughter anymore. He said I made it impossible to love me. I was so confused and sad, and so so fucking drunk. I was always drunk, I saw spiders on the wall, I was sweaty, I peed myself, There were nights when I could feel my heartbeat in my chest. I knew I was going to die, and the worst part of it was, my dad wouldn’t give a fuck-” My body was shaking, and Jack was screaming.

“So what, what was I? Just some fucking experiment?!“

I couldn’t stop it, it was building, flowing through me like an orgasm. “And then I met you Jack.  You took me home like some white knight, and I said- I can do this. I can be a fucking housewife. You made me someone else, someone that was different from Grace and I wanted to make you happy so much. I went on diets and skin care regimens. I listened to shitty ass country music and tried to read the bible. I gave up my favorite holiday because you said Halloween was the devil, and I even changed my name and dyed my hair. I just thought, If I could change my body, If I could be someone else, that maybe everything would be okay. But then I realized that a body was just a body, and a name was just a name. Deep down, I’m still that sad little drunk dyke begging for fucking daddy to love her!”       

I got up then, and went to the bedroom where I grabbed some clothes and threw them in my gym bag.

“You fucking lied to me! You’re a crazy bitch!”

“And you, Jack, you are fat.”

I kissed Hemingway a teary goodbye. Then I got in my car and drove away suddenly exhausted and sleepy. It was a release better than an orgasm.

I finished cleaning the men’s bathroom, when I heard the screech and smelt the burn of gasoline and ran outside. Arielle’s ancient KIA covered in rainbow stickers pulled into the parking lot between the the 3^rd whole and the green dumpster. The British woman kicked open the red door with her flip-flop, a cigarette in her mouth and a bag in her hands. Her hair was fire engine manic panic, and her cleavage didn’t peak but waved at you in her green shirt. Arielle walked over to me, tripping over a sprinkler and losing her shoe. She hoped back on one foot angrily mashing the other back inside, and smiled like a cat who ate a canary.

“What did you do?” I said.

“You.” Ariel smirked. She took a drag from her cigarette, blew the warm smoke into my open mouth and kissed me. I had met Ariel at the creative writing class Jack ironically encouraged me to take. Ariel wrote stories about demonic hamsters trying to take over the world- an operation being run by closeted gay politician Larry Craig. The first day of class I noticed a weird rainbow shell tattoo on her wrist with a circle at the head and two lips.

“Is that …a vagina?” I said.

“Totally,” Arielle smiled. She sat Indian style on her desk chair, then she leaned into my ear and whispered, her English accent made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “The clitoris is in white ink so it glows in the dark, in case you’re interested.”

After I left Jack’s house, I wasn’t thinking where I would go, or the fact that I had nowhere to go. I don’t know why, but something or someone inside me made my hands reach into my bag and dial Arielle’s number. We were roommates for about a month, then one night we made brownies and started making out on top of the batter bowl. I loved Brownies, and I loved the slipknot Ariel blasted from her speakers, but I really really loved to come. Ariel’s soft sexy circles and took me to a place so beautiful and innocent and true. She made me beg and moan, flopping all over her bed until I couldn’t take it anymore and she kissed me with her delicious mouth. I surrendered to Ariel’s wave of innocence and color and longing and then- without alcohol or blackouts, with our eyes still locked- I crashed into her. It was so intense; I saw rainbows of color and the glow of Ariel’s tattoo in the dark. Ariel was covered in tattoos- quotes of Sylvia Plath, Tribal, Pandas, typewriters, each one meant something to her, and each one meant something to me as I explored her porcelain skin. I cried, thinking I could have lived my life without expirerinceing such Joy and that I would never experience it again. Ariel assured me that I would, and then she took me to happiness again. Each day after work at the horrible golf course Ariel and I would cook fajitas and rice, read each other’s poems and have steamy hot sex. She would make me throb and pulsate and tingle so hard, I mean damn. God damn. Each time it got deeper and stronger to the point that two weekends ago in a height of ecstasy and passion I screamed three terrible words: I love you. Ariel hadn’t said anything, but the frat boys in the room next door clapped so I know she heard it. I pulled away with a sigh.

“I mean, Why are you smiling like that? What are you doing here?”  I said.

“Want to go for lunch, love?”

“I get off in a half an hour.”

“Alrighty, I’ll wait. I missed you.”

“I just left this morning” I giggled as Ariel rapped her arms around me when suddenly I heard a noise in the black bag. “What was that?”

“Oh, um, just my tummy, Puppet. Terribly hungry.” Ariel said. She kissed me once more then took my hand and guided me behind the dumpster- her eyes searching.

“What are you doing-“

Ariel opened the black bag and there beneath the unabridged poems of Sylvia Plath was Hemingway. Hemingway barked and panted at the sight of me, his long lost excersize and porn  partner. I took him in my arms and kissed his warm black fur. It still smelled of ice cream and summer. Suddenly it occurred to me.

“Ariel, how did you get Hemingway?”  I said.

“Oh, Darling, it was easy!” Ariel said. She took one last puff of her cigarette and put it out with her flip flop. She had a bad tendency to do this while the flame was still burning and as a result, all of Ariel’s flip flops had holes in them. “ I simply found out the security code from the pizza boy Gianni to open the gate to the development, then I followed Mr. Jack for a few days to make sure I knew his schedule. It’s three to eleven in case you’re wondering. I never knew that many fires occurred at night, but I suppose people cook supper and leave the oven on or something-”

“Ariel!”

“Anyway, The bloody wanker is so tired in the mornings, he leaves his keys in the door! All I had to do was snatch them up, take them to Lowes for a copy, and bring them back before he woke up. I grabbed Toto around 5 this morning, right before you left for work. The bloke is probably waking up right about now, thinking he’s run away.” Ariel said. As she spoke her earrings- two big dream catchers- spun, and I wondered what other crazy shenanigans wound up in their nets. 

“Ariel, you’re-“

“Brillant?”

“Insane!”

“Oh sweetheart” Ariel said. She took me and Hemingway in her arms.

“You stalked and broke into my ex-boyfriend’s house!” I said.  

“I thought you would be ecstatic!”

 “You stole his dog!”

“Only because I know how much he means to you. Dear god, you talk about him like a son. He could be our son, you know. That is… If you’ll be mine.” Ariel said.

“What?” I said.

 “I don’t want to see anyone else.” Ariel said. The clouds, filled and gray began to leak small droplets of rain. I could hear the sound of police sirens and knew that Jack had called the cops. Ariel touched my face with her cool hand, as the red and blue lights descended on Chico’s mini golf emporium. “I want you to be my girlfriend.”

Ariel, Hemingway and I got into her red KIA and drove to Luke’s dinner on the beach where I could clear my thoughts. I had ducked with the dog in the passenger seat, narrowly missing the officer. We sat at the table while Hemingway chased after seagulls.

“What a cute dog!” the waitress said, setting down our chocolate milkshakes. “You better watch somebody doesn’t steal him.”

My name is Grace Hepley. I’m a twenty two year old alcoholic; I’ve had a strange life. My mom died, my dad thinks I’m perverted, and my roommate wants to have my son. These are the things that you think about when you’re on the run with your lesbian lover who stole your ex-boyfriend’s terrier.

“Well are you going to answer me, then?” Ariel said. She sat next to me, her arm around my white picnic chair.   

“Answer what? The officer when he interrogates me!?”

“Look, Grace. I had to.”

“Oh yes, I just put a gun to your head and said steal my exes dog for me!” I said. “Get real.”

“I did, I did have to. Grace, it’s not easy for me” Ariel said.

“What’s not easy for you? You followed jack for a week-”

“Two weeks.”

“But why?” I said.

“Because, I just told you.” Ariel said.

“Told me what?!”

“Because I love you, Grace. I love you.” Ariel said. She looked at me, as Hemingway barked in the sand and the world fell away.

“You love me?” I said.

“Ever since you said it, I’ve been trying to come up with a way to show you, to prove to you that you are more to me than sex. I love the way you sing in the shower. I love the way you organize your skittles by color. I love the way you run when you can’t sleep. I love the way you write. I love the way you always make me laugh. I love the way you curl your tongue when we kiss. I love the way you make me question things. I love the way you give me reasons to everything. You are my favorite poem. ”

“How can you love me?” I said. “I’m an alcoholic, I’m a liar-”

“And I’m a dog napper, love.” Ariel smirked.

“You don’t understand, I’ve slept with more women than I can remember, I’ve used a poor innocent guy, I’ve drank until I wet the bed-“

“Grace, those are just things you’ve done. They’re not you.”

“Then who am I?” I said.

“You are an amazing indescribable woman worthy of love. You are everything that you want to be and everything you will become. ” Ariel said. For everything that Ariel was-a crazy, punk rock, dog napper- she was also so pretty and smart. The writer knew so many words and put them together perfectly in the exact way I needed to hear. She was a chocolate brownie with extra icing, she was a twenty dollar bill I found in my jeans out of the wash. She was the color pink in the sunrise that shined so bright the ocean waves stopped and bowed to her. Ariel and I leaned in together as one and kissed in the salty breeze, as Jack approached our table.

“Well, you must be the weird British bitch with the demonic hamster stories I’ve heard so much about. Cheerio.” Jack said. “Kelly- I mean Grace, how have you been?” He stood with his arms crossed, rage all over his face like the red on a tomato.

“Jack-“

“Let’s see, we’ve got two options here.” Jack said. He pulled up a chair to our table and straddled it backwards. “First option, your little friend Mary Poppins goes for some tea and crumpets and we talk. Or number two, we try to talk- awkwardly ignoring the lesbo moment that just happened.”

“Ello asshole” Ariel said. She shook his hand. “I say option number three. You go home with your American sausage and I’ll eat your girlfriend’s Mcmuffin.”  

“Grace, I’m not angry anymore. Really, you want to waste your life – that’s fine. I just want to know, have you seen my dog anywhere?                               

I shook my head rapidly, and kicked Ariel underneath the table.

“Hemingway went missing. It’s the strangest thing, because I locked the door last night..”

“That is funny, maybe Toto unlocked the door and took a bus back to Kansas” Ariel said.

“I just thought I would check here, since we used to walk him around here.” Jack said. He looked sad then, and for a moment I felt terrible. “You’re a lucky girl, Mary Poppins. Tell me something, does she let you fuck her? Does she let you touch her tight little pussy?”

Ariel punched Jack in the face so hard he fell off his picnic chair. Blood squirted out of his mouth as he writhed on the wood.

“My tooth, my tooth fell out you fucking cunt!” Hemingway leaped and bounded up the stairs seeing his father on the floor, and ate the white canine on the ground. “Hemingway, No!”

“Good boy, toto.” Ariel said.

When the police took Ariel away, I drove her KIA back home to get the bail money. Ariel said she kept some cash in her underwear drawer- a trick she learned from her grandmother who lived through the depression. I opened the top drawer and dug when I found the photo strip. It was of us when we went to the beach a few weeks ago, a few hours before I had said I love you. We were covered in sand and salt when Ariel dragged me into the booth.

“I look like shit.” I said. There was a straggling line of seaweed in my hair and my bathing suit itched.

“Oh shush, it will be fun.” She giggled. She pushed the button and put in a crisp two dollars. There were all different backgrounds, black and white, sepia, color, bestfriends, mother and daughter, I love you,. Ariel pushed the button for Crazy Girls, the background that had rainbows and butterflies.

“You would” I said. I smirked as Ariel stuck out her toungue and the machine counted down 3-2-1. Ariel and I hugged, making peace signs, funny faces, and smiling for the camera. We still had two pictures left when I looked at her. “Let’s try something” I said. The machine began to count down

3-2-

I leaned in and kissed her. Her lips tasted like the ocean and the sky and my heart beat with the soul of a thousand mermaids. I heard the machine flash but Ariel didn’t pull away. I couldn’t stop kissing her either. When Ariel and I kissed in that booth it wasn’t just the machine that flashed, it was like a lightning bolt in our bones. It didn’t matter that I was sandy. It didn’t matter that I had a past, or a future, I was just there kissing her- and I was okay. The machine was counting down once more for the last picture. We both smiled as we pulled away, and the machine flashed.

I looked at that last picture and our smiling happy faces as I went to the jail. Maybe that’s what life was about- It wasn’t a tattered photograph in a wallet, it was a series of them. It was a photo strip that you took pieces of and put together as a whole picture. It was surrendering to the wave.

  I bought coffee and Krispy Cream and had them waiting for us in the car when Ariel was unshackled and released. “800 dollars for punching a guy in the face, they got some nerve.” Ariel said.

“You knocked out two of his teeth, he had to get three stitches not to mention, you broke into his home, made a copy of his house key, stole his dog-”

“Whose side are you on, missy?”

I opened the car door and gave Ariel the bag of donuts.

“Sides mean nothing to me.” Ariel said.

“Nobody’s ever beat the shit out of anyone for me before. I thought my girlfriend should get a present. I know donuts aren’t as romantic as commiting a felony-” I said.

Ariel beamed. She put down the bag of crullers and engulfed me in a hug, smelling my hair.

“Anytime, love. Anytime”

I brought Ariel’s face to mine, kissing her, kissing her, when there was a bark from underneath her sweatshirt.

“Ariel,” I said. Ariel took off her grey sweatshirt and Hemingway roamed in the KIA wagging his tail as I stared at her laughing in disbelief. She cupped my face in her hands, and kissed me.  

“I love you, crazy girl.”