Feeling: withdrawn
Listening to: Indigo Girls, Swamp Ophelia
Reading/Watching: Wicked

I could go crazy on a night like tonight
When summer's beginning to give up her fight
and every thought's a possibility,
and voices are heard, but nothing is seen.
Why do you spend this time with me?
...May be an equal mystery.

I had plans, but they are unhappening as I sit here. There were scanty ideas about going out, stronger ones about staying in, curled into the company of the one I see most often and yet miss oftener.

But he's launching into Hour 17 of his unexpectedly long workday, as unbelievable as that sounds, and so I am here, quietly home. There are no more websites to visit, I can't bear to watch any more TV (I fell asleep on the carpet watching DVDs of Angel with Nimsay), cookies have been baked, dishes washed, countertops scrubbed, even my homework for the weekend is done. This is usually my cue to resent how I sit here like half a person, and long for my days of independence, but truthfully? I am independent. I just have no car, and this is not a shabby Friday night, by the standards of my life in highschool.

I've just been waiting, and packing my bags for tomorrow's camping trip with the choir. It's our yearly retreat, fun with marshmallows, camp fires, and rope swings over the river. I'm glad to be going, since I planned the whole darn thing last year, and the gigs on Rosh Hashanah prevented me from actually participating.

Then Indigo Girls came on my stereo, singing Mystery, and of course I had to write in my journal.

I've joined a sort of anti-NaNoWriMo (that's National Novel Writing Month) group on LJ, and for every day in October, instead of trying to write 1000 words a day, we're just writing whatever we wish on a given topic. Today's inaugural topic was Lemonade, and just to torture all of you, this is what I wrote:

For years, she noted the contrast between friends and lovers: lovers were sweet, and often clingy, all about whispered words and awkward attempts at poetry. They stroked her hair, and drowned in her voice, without understanding a word she said. Their sugary embrace was comforting, but short-lived. Over a variable period of time, she couldn't stand the cloying, adoring look in their eyes.

So she would walk away, as gently as possible, but never as quietly as she would wish. She always did the leaving. It made her The Bitch.

She found a steadying force in her male friends, rough-cut and wry, laughing heartily when she was witty and clever, instead of clasping her hand and smiling sweetly. They cussed, watched sci-fi movies, read the same books, and talked about Boy Things instead of the haunting romance of the moon and stars. Their comfort was scarce, their voices crisp and sharp, seeking laughter and tart repart�e.

She loved their acidic sense of humor, their wild, colorful world. But when she offered her heart to them, they retreated in favor of sour jokes and safe distance, keeping things the way it was. If she ever mentioned the issue, asked openly for their regard, they were swift with avoidance, dripping thin excuses like lemon juice as they retreated. It made her The Fool.

Now it was New Year's Eve, and she stood on a balcony, looking down over three stories to the grass below. Midnight was two minutes distant, and fireworks glowed dimly over the horizon, waiting for their moment of glory.

She shifted her weight, and accidentally jostled the elbow of the boy standing next to her. "Oh, 'scuse me."

He grinned. "Too many hard lemonades?"

She shook her head. "No. Looking down is making me feel like I could jump off and not touch the ground... You know, last year I made a resolution that by this day, I would have someone to kiss at midnight. If nothing else, I would have someone, be it a boyfriend or a date or just a big walking pair of lips, that I could hug and kiss and wish a happy New Year to. That was all I wanted."

He looked down at the ground, unusually somber in starlight half-blocked by the roof of the porch. "I can understand that. It's kind of what I was thinking about, too. How there's nobody."

She watched him, and waited, until the moment stretched too long, too quiet, and her stomach was a sour knot of disappointment. He wasn't going to say it. She refused to say it.

Then midnight arrived, and the sky bloomed in flash and fire. She glanced sideways at him, and he seemed to have forgotten she was there, staring silently at the fireworks.

"Happy New Year," she murmured, and gave him an awkward half-hug from one side.

He turned, and gave back her hug with interest, both arms secure around her waist. "Happy New Year," he said back, his breath on her ear.

The embrace lasted longer than she was expecting, leaning against him with the echo of sweet lemon on her tongue.

I've even got Nimsay joined in on the fun, now. This will be an interesting month. And during November, the actual time for NaNoWriMo, we've agreed to write a chapter each of our vampire story on alternating days, so basically a half-chapter a day. The chapters will be posted in our Xanga, to which I will not be giving anyone the address.

It's going to be a literary two months. I look forward to it.

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