“What of Nirvana
It seems you need to suffer
Though you see True North”

What can I do to go to sleep and never wake up again, she thought, numbly.  What can I do to go to sleep and never wake up again, she demanded of herself a second time, and then a third and fourth. “Where has your hope gone, Cress,” she whispered aloud, thinking back to her blog post from two years ago.  Convicted, she’d argued it is exactly hope that makes one willing to put their head on the pillow at the end of each day with the wish that they’ll open their eyes in the morning.  “Hope wins,” did I really say that, she asked into the darkness.  Shocked at her present state of mind, she wiped away the tears from her hair and ears and took a breath, thinking – writer, heal thine own self….

Maybe I’m just cold, she decided, desperately searching for some way to convince herself she didn’t truly wish to never wake up again.  Why the hell did I buy a plaid, flannel shirt, she mused, mindlessly grabbing it off the pillow next to her and wrapping it around her shoulders.  Because, she replied to herself sarcastically, that’s what the college-age women are wearing this season – belted, with leggings and cute boots.  And, who doesn’t want to feel stylish – read, young – a thought that led her to indulge in further self-loathing.  Is that what it’s come down to?  Flannel is depressing and I look like hell in plaid and I know it, she lectured herself.  Will I ever hear my own voice again, she wondered.

And, why the hell did he wear his plaid flannel so tight, came from out-of-nowhere the question she’d buried in the back of her brain when she first saw Victor.  Tight, green, plaid, flannel – she always notices peoples’ shirts right away.  She forgave the then stranger precisely because he had the nerve to wear it so tight.  Plus it was green and she would always forgive someone who had on green.  She needed to know and understand, was this man entirely unaware that his shirt was ill-fitting or was he just confident enough in his skin to not care?  Without any clear plan on how to find out, she’d walked right up to him and introduced herself, “I’m Cressida, your new neighbor.”

She could hear now that her voice had a tinge of incredulousness in it when she’d uttered the words.  He’d gazed thoughtfully back at her while she spoke, like he was drinking in her words, her tone, her eyes, her – everything.  And he’d seemed amused.  When he spoke to welcome her to the neighborhood, she quickly realized, in strange order, that he was quite a simple man, brilliantly comfortable in his skin.  And, he had great guns.  God, she thought now in hindsight – had she noticed that fact first, she’d never have cared to introduce herself.  No need to go down that road ever again, she was certain.  Resigned I am, she sadly but proudly thought, to never trusting myself again.  

Victor. Brilliant. Comfortable. But as he told her his name and welcomed her, he seemed to be in conflict.  In pain?  What was it, she wondered now.  What difference does it make, she thought, resigned to helping him….