Letting go…for real.

It’s been a little over four months since my death by breakup with my boyfriend on July 1, 2018. Thankfully there was a resurrection shortly after.

If you ask me how I feel, I’ll say fine. Especially if I don’t know you that well. The real answer is just too complicated. Not that you’ll know I’m lying if I say “fine.” Because I look fine. I’ve got a new hairstyle. I bought some new clothes. I treated myself to a few things. I’m working on the whole “self-care” thing – trying to get my diet in order. I’ve lost a few pounds. I’m trying to take better care of my skin. In a way, I look good. I’ve moved back into what is my house now, out of the house I shared with my ex, and I’m trying to get used to that, and to get plans together for the next part of the remodel. I want my house to look the way I want it to look by next summer. I’m trying to rebuild relationships I’ve let falter.

Me and Jonathan

But I feel awful at the same time. This wasn’t what my life was supposed to be right now. I thought I’d be in the midst of planning my wedding by now, that my book would be a raging success, that I’d be deliriously happy, in love, and moving towards forever with my man. Instead, I’m in my new/old house, back in the workplace, not in love, very damaged and painfully single.

I put everything I had into this last relationship. I left it all on the field in a way I never have, even with my children’s fathers. Me and my ex lived together. We shared finances. We woke up together every day and went to bed together every night. We talked and kissed and loved and took care of each other. We giggled and snuggled and created our home, our friends, our life. For nearly five years. Day in and day out. To have that end, and to end so abruptly, had shaken me to my core. And it was sudden – literally one day I had a man, the next day he did something horrible and I didn’t have one anymore. And of course, I lost my best friend. I returned to my new/old home a shivering wreck, not trusting anything or anyone, especially not my own judgement. How could I? After all, I picked him. I spent years with him. How could I have done that if I had any sense? Clearly I should be single the rest of my days because I suck at picking men. And when that relationship ended, in a big way I ended too. I discovered how much of me I had poured into it. Because when he left, the way I was in that relationship just…died. Who I was…died. She just left this world.


Everything I have done since July 1st, when who I used to be died, has been a coping mechanism. Every single thing has been a way for me to deal with my hurt, my loss, my abject misery and utter confusion at how this all happened. Every conversation with friends, every tear I shed, every event I’ve hosted, planned, or attended, every activity I’ve participated in, every meal I’ve eaten, every cocktail, every shot of 1800 Silver Tequila, every kiss, every lick, moan and stroke. All those things were done to ease my intense pain, to help me deal with death. My death. I have been mourning the loss of me as much as the loss of us. On July 1st, he killed me. And I realize now I wasn’t supposed to survive, but I did somehow.


But resurrected Petula is a whole different bitch. Its not that I don’t like her – she’s just so unlike who I used to be. She has new hair a lot. At times she makes me uncomfortable.

tula selfie 1

She’s kind of loud. She doesn’t sit in the corner of rooms as much as she used to. Now she’s out in front. She hides behind others a lot less. In times past she would have called someone else to host the shows she produced. Now she does it herself, right in front. She’s blunt. Really blunt. Almost mean, but not quite. She drinks a lot more than the old me did – not in a becoming-an-alcoholic kind of way, but she enjoys good wine and top shelf booze a lot more frequently and openly. Oh, and she drinks shots too. Dead me didn’t do that much. She goes out a lot and comes home late. There is absolutely no difference between weeknights and weekends for her. She is oddly confident, almost arrogant in her day-to-day life, as if she is being forced into the spotlight and has decided she might as well enjoy it. She tosses her hair. She is more flirtatious. She plays her music everywhere she goes. When she smiles, her mouth opens wide, when it didn’t used to do that. She is surrounded by her men friends almost constantly – on the phone or in person. They are her best friends. All of them are big men, tall or wide or tall and wide, and all are a bit menacing looking. All of them have become very protective in recent months, calling and texting often to make sure this new woman is okay. New me is demanding, stating her wants and needs very clearly with fewer words and with little room for negotiation. She even takes selfies in the car from time to time, which old me never did. She’s figuring out how to work her angles.

tula selfie 2

But there are things I like about her. She’s very generous. She laughs a lot. She feels very glad to be alive, especially with so much death around her recently. She prays every morning before she gets out of bed. She has a counter in her kitchen with pictures of all the ancestors she met in her lifetime and she greets them every morning as she enters the kitchen. She drinks lots of water. She talks to her kids quite often. She is in therapy, has a grief counselor and a life coach, and is looking for a personal trainer. She makes sure she gets enough sleep, but not so much that she passes up a fun night.  There is a brashness about her, an unexpectedness that I like. You never know what she is going to say. She is still shy, but not as shy as she used to be. She has a rather cutthroat quality that I don’t quite understand, but I like. She’s smart as shit. She’s savvy. She knows her shit, and gets things done. She doesn’t just talk the talk – she walks the walk.

She is definitely going to take some getting used to.  I am not sure I like her, but I respect the fuck out of her.



I Like to Kiss Him…It’s Kinda Weird…In A Good Way

After breakups I forget who I am. Every time. Utterly and completely. This last one was a doozy, so I forgot all of myself at light speed. I literally had to run from my old life like a refugee, with only the things I could gather together in 36 hours. After such a traumatic experience, I really forgot everything about who I was. I didn’t look like myself. I didn’t dress like myself. I didn’t adorn myself as I usually did. I felt like someone had deactivated me, had turned me off and I couldn’t figure out how to get the juice flowing back through me. I was already grieving a lot of losses, and now I had lost my life and myself as well. How would I get me back?

But part of answer came to me quite accidentally. It is through the magic of human touch, which now I allow myself to experience in every way. In fact, I know I’m getting older because I enjoy hugging and kissing way more than I ever have.

kiss-7I have friends and acquaintances in my circle who are amazing huggers. Like, they can change you whole outlook on life with a single hug. Their hugs are so friggin’ amazing I actually used to avoid them because I didn’t feel deserving of such goodness. But now I look forward to seeing them because I know I’m going to get a hug. I don’t awkwardly pull away like I used too, feeling like I stole something. Now I lean into the hug. I enjoy it. I let it last however long it should, and I allow it to find its own ending.

But this blog isn’t about hugging. Its more about kissing.

I wrote a blog about kissing 5 years ago – I wrote it the morning after the night I first kissed my most recent ex-boyfriend. I really enjoyed kissing him, and for me that was a sign that he was special. Because like a lot of people, for me there is a unique level of intimacy that exists in a kiss that is distinctly separate from other forms of intimacy – even sex. Additionally, my boyfriend before him was a bit stingy with his kisses, and I took that very personally, as if he didn’t like kissing me or something was wrong with me. I even asked him about it once and he said it had nothing to do with me, but of course that just made me certain that it was me…maybe he hated my face, or my lips weren’t soft, or my breath stank, or I was just an awful kisser. It affected my confidence, to be perfectly honest.

But I was having a different experience now. To have access to freely given, well-executed kisses was a great thing. To have someone want to kiss me, to enjoy kissing me, to bring his lips to mine enthusiastically and frequently was great. During our five years together, we kissed. A LOT. In fact sometimes we’d be just sitting around watching television and one of us would yell out “MAKE OUT SESSION!” and we’d just start kissing and touching each other for a few minutes, then we’d stop and go back to watching television. It was a silly little thing we’d do, but it made us both laugh. (We hugged a lot also, which also made me more comfortable with hugging, and more comfortable when my friends would hug me.)


This positive experience with made me more comfortable with kissing, which was good. It restored my confidence. Evidently it made me more comfortable than I realized. The next time a man moved his face in front of mine to kiss me, I didn’t shrink away like I had done all my life. I actually met him head on and kissed him back. Without hesitation.

Now because I have always given so much weight to kissing as an especially intimate act, when he kissed me, I felt like a line had been crossed, and I wasn’t entirely sure I was ready to. But then another strange thing happened – I enjoyed the kiss. Like…REALLY ENJOYED IT.  It reminded me of the first time I kissed my ex in the sense that I enjoyed kissing from the very first time we kissed. Usually it takes time for me to get used to kissing a person, for me to be sure I’m kissing them the way they like, I worry about if the kisses are too moist or too dry (#virgooverthink). I worry about how big my head is. I worry about how big my face is, how round it is. I feel uncomfortable, because I don’t like the way my face looks, and now this guy is all up in my grill, really seeing my whole fucking face up close and personal and I start feeling like I need to compensate for how my face looks by kissing him awesomely. (#virgosuperoverthink)


But none of those thoughts occurred to me when he kissed me. I just enjoyed it. And then he kissed me again. And I enjoyed that too. And I wasn’t worried about my face, or my head, or anything. And then he nibbled my bottom lip absolutely perfectly. Not too much force, the absolute perfect amount of pressure and force and lip and passion. It actually freaked me out a little, because I wasn’t expecting to enjoy kissing him, because the only person I’d ever enjoyed kissing right off the bat was my most recent ex, and I had chalked that up to a happy coincidence that couldn’t possibly happen again.

But it did. With him. For almost ten minutes. Can you imagine, being kissed absolutely perfectly for ten minutes straight? I honestly needed nothing else after that.

So, I am reminded (yet again!) who I am (because I forget sometimes). While I’ve done a lot of things to reactivate myself, which have included getting my hair done, getting a physical, changing my diet, taking my cute dresses and shoes out of storage, burning sage all over my house, chanting every morning with crystals, re-engaging with the things I love to do (including blogging), rubbing shea butter all over myself every day, and going to therapy weekly, allowing myself human connection has been as important as any of those things. And not even in a sexual way necessarily. Human beings are meant to be in relationship with each other, and when my life fell apart my first instinct was to isolate myself.

But I didn’t. I did all those things I mentioned. And I leaned on my friends. Hard. Some days they’ve had to carry me through my life. But I let them help me. And they have.

And I kissed him. That helped too. I may do it again one day.

The day it ended…

I remember clearly the moment my relationship ended. It is etched in my brain. My significant other had chased me from our home in a rage one beautifully sunny Saturday morning in July. I was literally running for my life. It never occurred to me to try to fight him. He was much younger than me, and stood a muscular six foot three and a half inches. I don’t engage in battles I can’t win, or at least fight to a draw. Period. So I ran. As I ran, cell phone in my hand, I managed to call the police and then one of my best friends. I wanted my friend to hear what was going on in case I didn’t make it out of the situation alive. I wanted my friend to be able to report what had happened.

The police arrived. I was sitting on the porch of my mother’s former home. I was distraught, crying hysterically. The police were trying to ask me questions to ascertain what happened, but all I could do was cry and cry harder. I was cracking in half. I wailed and moaned on and on, part of me feeling bad that I couldn’t explain what was happening. I wanted to explain that while I was crying because my significant other had chased me from our home in a fit of rage, I was crying for even more than that. I was crying for my son, who was in a depressive state at the time, barely speaking, totally traumatized because the week before, my significant other had hit my son, and when the police came and didn’t arrest him, my significant other left the house for six days, making no contact with any of us, leaving my son and I in the house terrified and not knowing what to do. I was crying for my daughter, who had to witness, for the second time in her life, her mother being traumatized by a man who claimed to love her. I was crying for the loss of my mom, who had died of a rapidly moving cancer only 4 months prior. I was crying for the loss of my sister, who had died even more suddenly, less than a year prior.  I was crying for all the burdens life was brutally thrusting onto my shoulders – including the fact that my significant other had been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes and was struggling mightily to get his numbers under control and to get his health in order. He had become deeply depressed and lethargic, and everything I tried to do to help and support him fell on deaf ears.

So, I screamed at the weight of it all…screamed because I was afraid that, in addition to everything else, all the things I had managed to survive this far, this man might actually hurt me, or kill me. A man who had been a big, beautiful part of my world for five years, who I had lived with for four of them. A man I loved with everything I had, everything I was, everything I breathed. A man who claimed to love me even more than that.

As I cried and cried, face buried in my hands, police officers questioning me, I heard him say over their voices, “stop crying Tula. Stop crying Tula. Stop crying Tula. Stop acting like a white woman Tula.

With those words, the knife reached its deepest point. I froze, not moving, realizing how deeply he’d cut me. But the tears stopped, and the anger began to flow, making its way to the wound to stop the pain temporarily.

And that was the moment when I knew I was done with him. Because he said I was acting like a white woman. Because evidently, a deeply and obviously emotion-filled response to months of trauma and loss and pain, now topped by an angry man seeking to kill me did not warrant tears. Not Black woman tears anyway. We don’t do that. We don’t cry. And our perceived toughness seems to make certain men more comfortable with hurting us. We’re Black women. We can take it a Black man’s best blows and be okay. How dare I be…what’s the word I’m seeking…HUMAN…at a moment when all he wanted to do was terrorize me?  This from a man who claimed to be so WOKE  (I hate that word in its modern-day context), so aware of the plight of oppressed Black people, so thoughtful about all the ways white supremacy made all our Black lives hard, this man decided a Black woman such as myself shouldn’t cry – that wasn’t for the sistas. That was for the others. A Black man decided he was in the position to have that expectation of me, that he had some say over how I responded to him.

Yeah. That was when it ended.

To be continued…




As a child, reading was EVERYTHING to me. It was my life. It gave me life. It helped me escape the confines of my limited existence in Paterson, New Jersey. I traveled to far away places and did really exciting things through reading. My earliest memories are of the hundreds of books that stuffed our small house in tall bookcases lining the walls of the living room…encyclopedias and biographies and anthologies that were my first exposure to fiction and short stories and poetry and famous people who did amazing things and wrote amazing things. My room was also full of books as well – my worn out copies of Louisa May Alcott novels and Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries taking up space alongside copies of Dr. Seuss and my worn out copy of “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings”.


Alongside our house was a small black shed that covered the space where our garden tools and our garbage cans were stored. It was right next to the back gate of our house. Even though our house had a big porch that ran across the full length of the house, the shed was my favorite spot to read, especially in the summertime when I was out of school. I loved hot weather. I loved feeling the sun lying across my skin while I read books for hours on end. At some point every day during summer break I would take a stack of books, pack them into my blue and white polka dot suitcase along with a blanket, and I would march outside to lie out on the shed and read. It was a little slice of heaven to me, but it never lasted as long as I wanted it to. Why? Because my parents would insist I come in the house to “get out of the sun”.


It always seemed that just when Nancy Drew was unraveling the meaning of the  latest clue she discovered, or just when the Hardy boys were piecing together all the information they had uncovered, I would hear my mother yelling through the house, “Tula? Tula!” Just as I was savoring the sweetest line of Nikki Giovanni’s poetry, or just when I was clutching my rapidly beating heart as Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” wound its way to its awful conclusion, I would hear my dad say, “is that baby outside? If she is, make her come inside!” And shortly after my mom would come to the back porch and call out to me, “Tula! Come in the house and get out of that sun! You don’t want to get dark, do you?


My parents first started admonishing me this way I was a very small child, say 6 or 7 years old. I didn’t understand what they meant, and since this took place during the era of children not asking parents to explain themselves, I knew better than to challenge them. Plus I was a pretty obedient child, and I wasn’t going to challenge their authority at that age. But I wondered why they were so concerned about my complexion changing. As I got a bit older I thought they were worried about me getting sunburned, though I never did. (To this day I don’t burn no matter how long I’m out in the sun.) Yes, I would get brown during the summer because I spent hours outside. Yes, my parents would mention my browner skin tones from time to time during my vacation from school. But when the cold temperatures set in, the summertime tan would always slowly fade away, so I never thought much about the change in my complexion because it was always temporary. I always came promptly into the house when they called me, but I didn’t understand the urgency in their voices.

As I got older I spent less time outside reading and more time outside with my friends playing and socializing. (This was back when kids stayed outside for hours playing and could wander as far away from home as they could get as long as they returned by the time the street lights came on.) We would travel through the neighborhood in a harmless pack of mostly girls, stopping along the way to play games of jacks, freeze tag, double dutch, kick the can and red light green light with whatever kids we encountered along the way. We would go to the corner store and get handfuls of penny candy, potato chips, and juice in small plastic jugs. We would go to the neighborhood playground to swing and slide and watch the older kids play basketball and softball and dance to music played on huge boom boxes. This took me away from my parents’ direct supervision for hours at a time, and meant I was out in the sun for hours at a time. I always came home when I was supposed to, but now I browned more quickly. Now the dark caramel coloring it used to take me until August to achieve happened by the fourth of July. My parents began lamenting the more rapid change in my complexion more openly and frequently.

baby tula 2

I was still oblivious.

My parents then did the unthinkable. They asked me to invite my friends over to play at our house. Like…in our house. They would say, “Tula, instead of going out in that hot sun why don’t Heather and Margie and Kathleen come over here and play instead of wandering around all day?” This was unprecedented in those days, because parents discouraged their kids from being in the house during the summer for any reason. You couldn’t just “run in and out the house letting out the cool air”, or you would run the risk of being made to stay in the house as punishment. If you voluntarily went into your house during the summer, it was assumed that you were suffering from heat stroke or something equally deadly. But my parents actually wanted my friends to play in the house. I mean…come into the house. I thought it was weird, so for the longest time I didn’t mention it to my friends.

tula black and white

Then they took it a step further. My dad had a room in our house dedicated to his artistic endeavors – my dad was a commercial artist (you would call him a graphic designer now) and he would often sketch, draw and paint in his leisure, so he had his paints, easels, drafting tables and other art supplies in this room. It was right by the back porch and near our guest bathroom, so my dad would often take his easel onto the porch to sketch. It also had a refrigerator in it where he kept snacks and drinks. But my parents moved his art stuff into their bedroom and took most of my big toys – my doll houses, big dolls, my rocking horse, my oversized stuffed animals, my bicycle and other larger toys I had and put them into this room. They put my board games into this room. They moved one of my bookcases into this room. They basically put my most awesome toys into this room. They put my little table and chairs into this room. And by the time they finished moving my best everything into this new space, my “playroom”, as my parents called it, was born.

I really felt weird now. I didn’t know anyone who had a room for their toys specifically for playing. But as soon as my friends knocked on my door to ask me to come out and play, my mom invited them in to see my playroom and spend their time there with me. Of course they loved it, and we spent hours upon hours having a good time in there. Now that I look back, I guess you could say my parents were ahead of their time – they created supervised play dates long before they became a thing. And most importantly, it kept me out of the sun!

tula middle school

The novelty of the playroom was a good deterrent from outdoor activities for a long time, but I still wanted to go out and play. At those times my mom would try to discourage me, reminding me of the fabulousness of my playroom. Often I would head out into the bright sunshine in spite of her best efforts. She never completely forbade me from going outside, but she made her displeasure known, and occasionally I did give into it and I would stay in the house. But I guess the goal was achieved – I was out in the sun much less, especially since my friends always wanted to spend at least a few hours in the playroom. So I didn’t get as dark as fast as I had previously. They took it as a victory I suppose.

Time passed. I got older. I started getting teased at school about my complexion a great deal. Plus I was a geek who got good grades in everything, read lots of books, and spoke standard English with great fluency. AND I had started writing, and earned great praise from my teachers for my essays and poetry. I was every teacher’s pet, which also made me every bully’s target. In fact, one of my best friends when I was a little girl turned against me as we got older and became one of my greatest tormentors. My parents often had to come to school to deal with bullies. For a period of time my mom would meet me at school to escort me home because she didn’t trust that I would get home unharmed if I walked alone or with friends. I got beat up, spit on, chased away from lots of places by small groups of angry kids who called me, “Oreo cookie”, “paleface”, “Whitey”, “Cracker”, “White Nigger”, as they ran after me, hoping to catch me so they could beat me up and further torture me up close and personal, which usually included threats to cut off my hair. (This actually started my interest in track, because I learned to run fast enough to get away from all of them.) As I became more aware of how concerned everyone around me was about my light skin, I began to ask my parents more direct and pointed questions about the motivations behind their concern about me “getting dark” during the summer. I asked about why everyone seemed to hate my complexion in general. My dad would make vague comments I didn’t understand about everyone being jealous of me. For what? Why? What did it mean?


The pieces were slowly coming together. And the picture that was forming was really troubling.

To be continued…



last first kissI guess technically my first kiss was with my 10th grade boyfriend. His name was Anthony, and he was a 9th grader. I know he is the first boy I kissed, but I remember absolutely nothing about that kiss. I only know it happened. We met at the high school we both attended. We met somehow, became friends, and then he asked me to be his girlfriend. I liked him well enough, so we started going together over winter break.

He lived not too far from me on a small street. I would go to his house sometimes and we’d hang out in his room in the basement. I remember us making out – nothing too serious, a lot of kissing and touching mostly. While it wasn’t unpleasant, it wasn’t…it didn’t feel…in spite of my inexperience I knew there was something missing between us physically. There was a lack of chemistry, a lack of compatibility, a lack of connection sexually. Our make-out sessions lacked passion. He tried to have sex with me in the non-threatening non-forceful ways young men did in those days. I was totally comfortable with telling him “no”, and he accepted my “no” with little complaint.

ME AND ANTHONY HENLEY 1982But we enjoyed each others company; he was an intelligent young man and we had great conversations. We’d hang out at The Inner Harbor on weekends, and he always took great care to make sure we wore matching outfits for these outings. (These matching outfits were extremely important to him, and were carefully coordinated by him.) I broke up with him shortly before the school year ended. He was very angry with me when I ended it, and immediately cut off all communication with me, even after I suggested that we could remain friends. When we returned to school after the summer break the following September, him as a sophomore and me as a junior, he came out of the closet. Well, he came out as much as a high school student could in those days – in this case it meant more “feminine” and “flamboyant” dress, speech and mannerisms. His new best friend was a classmate of his, a lesbian girl who dressed in very traditionally masculine clothing. Her name was Kim. I never had any conversations with her, but I could tell by the way she looked at me that she knew about my past relationship with Anthony.

He never spoke to me during the remaining two years we shared at the same high school, though they would often throw me shady and hostile looks when we passed each other in the halls or in the cafeteria. I never shared any of the details of my relationship with him with any of my classmates, and it always bothered me that he still seemed to harbor so much resentment towards me. His hostility made me sad. I sometimes wondered as a teenager if he was angry at me because I hadn’t been intimate with him – I wondered if he though maybe if I had been then he wouldn’t have been gay, and wouldn’t have to deal with the hardships he was facing with it. Though he was popular with the girls the way gay young men often are, he was still teased mercilessly by other students and dealt with a lot of homophobia in general. My heart bled for him silently from the sidelines, but I didn’t know what I should say or do. I thought maybe he felt like I might have saved him from having to face what was a difficult truth for him had I not rejected his sexual advances. In the back of my mind I had always planned to try to talk to him about these things, maybe after we graduated from high school. But some years after we both graduated I heard he’d passed away from AIDS.

But the first kiss I do remember was with my first REAL boyfriend. His name was Keenan. It happened in the basement of my house, right off from the kitchen. Keenan was tall, much taller than me, and very dark skinned. I remember when we went into the dark basement that I couldn’t see him – it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and as I was moving around my forehead bumped into his lips really hard. I heard him mutter “dammit” in the darkness, and I felt supremely embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I responded in the general direction of the “dammit”, and I heard him laugh in response. He felt him gently grab my face, and he pulled my face close to his. Finally our lips found each other, and I felt the electricity move from his mouth to mine, and the sharp pulse of energy caused me to shut my eyes. And like a perfectly orchestrated dance, our mouths opened in union and our tongues searched and found what they were looking for. Suddenly my ears filled with a roaring noise that sounded like huge waves hitting a beach.

I always thought he had beautiful lips. Looking at his lips was my first experience with being aroused by something physical on a man’s body. They were full and perfectly shaped – well at least to me they were. I used to touch them with my fingers and they were always so soft. I thought about this as we kissed that first time – I thought about how his lips felt as good as they looked. I squeezed my eyes tight, and saw dreamy colors floating about on the inside of my eyelids – royal blues and fuchsia shaped like bright fluffy clouds. I have no idea how long the kiss lasted – it might have only been a few seconds, or it might have been forever. But my eyes parted ever so slightly, and our lips began to part, and as our faces pulled away from each other, a long sticky thick string of saliva began to stretch from his lips to mine, and it grew longer and longer as the kiss officially ended. I watched it, absolutely horrified. The perfect kiss was being ruined by this awful saliva string that finally decided to pop, and by this time the thing was so long it actually made a sound when it popped.

My embarrassment total and complete now, I swore I would never kiss again. I broke that vow about 30 seconds later.


**I wrote this about 15 years ago originally. I came across it today and decided to post it.


A Pillar of Regret

by P.L. Caesar

They met for lunch at a popular café in the middle of town. He’d picked the place because it was centrally located and would be easy for both of them to get to from their respective parts of town. It was a cold, blustery day, and though the calendar said it was spring, Mother Nature hadn’t gotten the memo. Snow flurries whirred through the cold crisp air and the gusty wind blew people along the street faster than their feet could carry them. He got there first, and was surprised that she was not inside. He knew she’d gotten there before him because she’d called to tell him so and to see how long he’d be. He told her he was five minutes behind her, and then asked, “so, are you excited? About seeing me?” That question took her aback. She was looking forward to seeing him, but excited wasn’t exactly how she felt about it. But she didn’t want him to think she was not looking forward to lunch so she said, “I’m very much looking forward to lunch.”

He paused. “You’re not excited?”

“I didn’t say that,” she responded, laughing. She lied a little. “Yes, I’m excited.”

He knew she wasn’t, and now felt silly that he was. “I’ll see you soon.”

He had the hostess seat him near the rear of the restaurant, with his back against the wall, gangster style. He wanted to be able to see everyone who came and went. Scanning the restaurant one more time to confirm that she wasn’t there, he called her and said, “where are you?”

“I’m right outside, on my cell phone. I apologize. I got a call that I had to take. Where are you?”

“Inside the restaurant. I don’t know how I missed you.”
“Me either. But let me wrap this up and I’ll be right in.”

He folded his phone shut and closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was there, almost as if by magic, standing near the entrance. She was looking right at him but seemed not to recognize him. But he recognized her immediately. She was very fashionably dressed and for a moment he considered his very casual appearance. She only recognized him by the familiar way he looked at her. She didn’t notice what he had on, but she felt the warmth from his eyes reaching out to her and drawing her closer.

She walked over to where he sat. He stood to greet her. He’d planned to hug her but something in her demeanor prevented it. There wasn’t exactly a wall between them…it was more like a veil. He knew instinctively that he wasn’t supposed to lift it. She wasn’t accessible to him at this moment. She’d always been kind of mysterious, difficult to read, like a walking breathing Mona Lisa. She knew he’d planned to hug her and was glad he restrained the urge. She was still trying to decide how she felt about having lunch with him, and her defenses were on alert.

“Hey you,” she said softly to him as she took a seat. He sat down as well.

“Hello Sarah Jones,” he said in a formal tone that made her smile. The waitress trailed behind her, greeting them and offering menus, departing after taking their drink orders. ‘In The Air Tonight’ by Phil Collins began to play over the loudspeakers.

“Oh my goodness,” she said. “Do you remember this song?”

“Yeah I do. This is all they play here…eighties music.”

“Oh this is going to be funny. I get to hear all the music that was out when we were dating.”

A Pillar of Regret

P.L. Caesar

Page 2

He nodded, and she began to sing, horribly off key. Her head bounced vigorously, and she was oblivious to the stares she got from the tables nearby. But the patrons seemed to approve of her outburst, for they began smiling and bobbing their heads along with her.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said as David Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’ replaced Mr. Collins.

“It’s good to see you too. It’s been much too long, and it’s mostly my fault.”

“We should have done this sooner. But I know you’re so busy, and I’ve been kind of busy myself.”

They smiled at each other and looked directly into each other’s eyes, over twenty years of familiarity steadying their gazes. He studied her face, and reached over to touch her cheek. “You know, I still see the same shy little girl I remember from years ago. I really do. Still shy and beautiful with the bright sexy eyes.”

She blushed. “I wasn’t that little when we met. I was what, fifteen? Sixteen? And I am the same shy person. I tell people that all the time. Just because I’m in the public eye a bit doesn’t mean I can’t be shy.” She grew redder and redder with each word she spoke, and was positively crimson by the time she was done. He was touched to see he could still make her blush, remembering how much he liked to see her cheeks become ruddy as a result of his compliments.

He removed his hand from her face. “I guess I just thought you’d be…different.”

“I am.”

“Maybe I don’t see it. You look the same. Except the hair. But you have the same face, the same eyes.”

“A lot of the changes in me aren’t things you’d necessarily see with the naked eye.”

“Things I wouldn’t be aware of in public, huh?”

She shook her head, trying to ward away the suggestiveness of the comment. Her voice was tinged with excessive firmness as she said, “no.”

There was a pause as the waitress brought their drinks, then took their orders…a large crab dip appetizer for them to share, shrimp salad sandwich and baked potato for her, honey roasted chicken, wild rice and a salad for him. Bowie was replaced by The Human League’s ‘Don’t You Want Me Baby’, and she began to sing again. He touched the naked ring finger of his left hand and sighed. He hadn’t worn it in years, in spite of his wife’s protests. It was the only sign of resentment that he’d consistently held on to regarding his marriage; he’d worn the ring on his wedding day, and promptly put it away in a lockbox when they returned from City Hall.

It would have been normal for two old friends who had been apart for so long to ask about spouses, kids, pets, and careers. They didn’t have to do this because they both already knew all the answers to those questions. They had never totally severed the cord between each other, both quietly keeping track of each other, each making discreet inquiries of mutual friends from time to time on the status of the other. He was still married with five kids. She had never married, but had one child who was mildly autistic. Both had lost a child. Her son had been one of twin boys and the other died in utero; he had lost an infant son to SIDS many years ago. He had become a state trooper, eventually finding his way to college to major in computer science, with an emphasis on computer security issues. He combined his law enforcement experience and his degree to start his own successful security business, doing everything from installing sophisticated alarm systems to investigating identity theft to providing bodyguards and personal protection for athletes, celebrities and events. She had attended several colleges, finally earning a degree in English. She’d been a part-time graphic designer, then worked at a dot com that folded. She cobbled together an existence for herself and her son with a hodgepodge of part-time jobs while continuing to live with her parents for a long span of time. She finally got her own apartment in a two-story walkup in a suspicious neighborhood that he arranged to have patrolled without her knowledge until she moved into a nicer place. Since she was a single mom and her son was disabled she was able to collect Supplemental Security Income for him, and she got food stamps and a small cash assistance check. She dated sporadically, and never very seriously. In the midst of all of this she was always pursuing her writing as if possessed, and little by little managed to have some success. Her first big break was landing a fairly steady spot a contributing writer for the local alternative weekly newspaper. Now she was on staff at the paper with her own column, she covered the arts scene in the area, and she had recently published her first novel that was generating good buzz. He’d been shot once and was severely injured, almost fatally so. Her son’s pregnancy had been a high risk one for her and nearly killed her. He’d gained almost eighty pounds since he last saw her, but tried to keep it under control by going to the gym as often as his schedule would permit. She had maybe gained thirty, and her formerly slim curves had become more voluptuous. She’d grown her hair long and it hung down her back now. He’d been shaving his head bald for years. Her eyes and lips were exactly as they were in 1983, and this caused his mind to wander to a sensual place briefly. She noticed that he was larger and had developed strong bulging biceps. She admired the perfect round symmetry of his head. But neither said a word about any of this…they just continued smiling at each other, he quietly and insistently, she continuing to sing as she stared.

A Pillar of Regret

P.L. Caesar

Page 3

As the music faded he said, “you actually remember the words to this stuff! You’re really are stuck in the eighties, aren’t you?”

“I think you’re stuck in the eighties too, which is why we’re having lunch today.”

Spandeau Ballet’s ‘True’ was next up on the play list. He said, “I have always loved that about you. The way you express yourself. So open and honest.”

“One of us has to do it. You were always so secretive.”

“I wasn’t secretive…”

As the words left his lips he watched them register in her eyes, and watched the veil transform into a wall. The last comment was a lie, and he regretted it instantly.

The last time he saw Sarah before today was the day she rang his doorbell and his very new wife had answered the door. She had not known he had married. Almost six months previously he and Sarah had gotten into a huge argument…the worst they’d ever had. He couldn’t even remember how the argument started now, but he remembered the noise and the emotions running so high in his tiny apartment that the walls began to vibrate. He remembered her leaving, saying she never wanted to see him again. He remembered going to his friend Ricky’s place to talk to him about what happened, and that his sister Denise was there. He’d dated Denise at one time. He remembered the gold tequila clearly, but only vaguely remembered the night he spent in Denise’s bed calling Sarah’s name. He remembered finding out Denise was pregnant seven weeks later from Ricky. Denise refused to abort the baby. He remembered feeling set up. He couldn’t remember if he’d used a condom or not because of the tequila. He never contacted Sarah to explain. He didn’t see the point.

On that day when he heard Sarah’s voice at the door, asking for him, he rushed from the back of the apartment just as Denise said, “sweetheart, who is this woman? Is she a friend of yours?” He arrived in the doorway just in time to see Sarah’s face crumble to the ground as she took in the simple gold band and the ample growing belly in Denise’s possession. Sarah jumped into her Chevy Nova and drove blindly down the street. He’d jumped into his 280Z and caught up to her quickly. He waved his arms at her, trying to get her to pull over so they could talk. They drove down the road like this for several blocks until she suddenly turned off, the heavy traffic preventing him from changing lanes quickly enough to catch her.

A Pillar of Regret

P.L. Caesar

Page 4

He’d sworn off impulsiveness the minute he said, “I do”, and as he drove the few short blocks back to the apartment he cursed at himself for allowing Sarah to make him forget his word to Denise and their unborn child so quickly. Mentally firming his resolve, he returned to his home and his new family, ending his youth as he shut the door behind him. Since that day he slavishly devoted his life to being a column of strength to his family, a rock of stability to the brood that grew by leaps and bounds over the years that followed. Even in his work he made people feel secure, protected, and safe. He was intensely committed to his life decision most of the time. Denise to her credit seemed determined to repay him for the trickery she employed to snare him by giving him a good life in every way she could. She actually turned out to be a pretty good wife, a good money manager, and an excellent mother. If he had known about the good qualities she possessed before he might have fallen in love with her on his own. He often thought it was a shame that Denise never knew how wonderful she truly was and thought she had to manipulate people to get what she wanted. That was the one thing he had never been able to fully digest about her even though they had been married close to twenty years.

He grabbed Sarah’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry Sarah.”

She squeezed back. “I know you are.”

“I’ve always been sorry about how badly I treated you…”

“I know.”

“I always wanted to tell you that I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t matter. Because you did. You were always special to me. I cared for you deeply, and…”

She cut him off. “It took a long time for me to understand how you could…why you could…but it was so long ago. We were both young and you were trying to do the right thing. I definitely understand that now. I admire your high level of commitment.” He squeezed her hand again, and the ghosts of their past officially joined them at the table. Then she suddenly blurted out, “science!”

She began to bob her head again, and repeated the word. He finally caught on. Thomas Dolby’s ‘She Blinded Me With Science’ was playing now. It had been one of his favorites too, so he joined her in singing. He stumbled over many of the words, but she remembered every one and laughed at his memory lapses. Music was how she remembered things, especially him. They were transported back in time to days when he’d visit her and she’d play this music and dance for him, him sitting in her living room as she pranced around in her skintight Calvin Klein jeans and her pink Izod polo shirt, grabbing him by the hands, encouraging him to dance with her, ignoring his pleas that she stop. He remembered taking her to see ‘Pretty In Pink’, ‘The Breakfast Club’, and ‘Sixteen Candles’ to satisfy her obsession with Molly Ringwald. He was always trying to talk her out of dying her hair flaming red. She suddenly recalled his favorite faded sky blue Ocean Pacific corduroy shorts for some reason. Pink Floyd’s ‘The Wall’ was next up as the waitress brought the crab dip appetizer. They grabbed crusty bits of the warm baguettes and began dipping. She dipped and blew on hers and he admired the O shape her lips formed. He was hungry and hurriedly dipped and tried to eat, but the hot dip burned his mouth. He dropped the bread and she laughed. She picked up a fresh piece of baguette and dipped it in the crab, blowing on it to cool it and passing it to him. Instead of taking it with his hands, he opened his mouth slightly, and she placed it in, smiling. Feeling impulsive for the first time in decades, he grabbed her hand and licked the bit of dip that had escaped the baguette off her fingers. The people at the tables around them smiled approvingly, imagining them to be lovers. But she froze the minute his tongue made contact with her flesh, and she pulled her hand from him as gently as she could. She knew she’d started it so she couldn’t be angry, but she hadn’t expected him to cross the line so readily and eagerly. A strand of her hair fell over her shoulder and he reached over to push it back. She pushed it back herself before he had a chance.

A Pillar of Regret

P.L. Caesar

Page 5

She spoke, breaking the spell. “I hope you didn’t bring me here just to apologize,” she said sincerely. “I do appreciate the gesture, but it really wasn’t necessary. We could have talked about this over the phone. Or you could have e-mailed or IM’d me.”

“You didn’t want to see me,” he asked playfully.

“Well, no, its not that.”

“Does it hurt to see me?’

“It stung at first. But only a little. Does it hurt to see me?”

He swallowed a large sip of his soda. “I’m very glad to see you. And I’m very proud of you too.”

“Why proud?”

“Because you did what you set out to do. I respect you a lot Sarah. Very few people in this world do what they say they’re going to do. People have dreams, goals, wishes, talents…and life gets hold of them and they never do what they really want. They use all kinds of excuses, and just spend years dreaming and not doing. But you found a way to make your dreams real. You always said you’d be a writer, and you are. You have no idea how much I respect that.”

She was blushing again. “I respect you too.”

He was surprised at that. “Why?”

“Because you are a responsible person. As much as what happened back then hurt at the time, I do admire what you did. You could have easily abandoned the situation, but you didn’t. You recognized what was important to you…giving your child a two-parent home, a stable home. You knew you wanted to raise your children every day of their lives, and did what you had to do to make it so.”

“You don’t think you’re a responsible person?”

She began to scrape dip from the bottom of the serving bowl. They had gone through it pretty quickly. “I’m not entirely sure. The choices I’ve made in my life haven’t always led to…stability. Even after I had my son. I just wanted to write so badly…I was so driven, just consumed by it. I guess once you and I…well, I became kind of self absorbed, just wanted to do what I wanted to do, make myself happy. Other than that all I thought about was writing, being successful at writing. I should have just pursued a nine to five, a normal career. All those years on welfare while I was trying to get stuff off the ground, only taking part-time jobs, buying groceries with food stamps, living off my son’s SSI money, when I knew I could have just gotten a decent job and taken proper care of him…”

He felt compelled to interrupt her. “You are a great mother. Especially considering the extra hardships with his autism. I can only imagine how you got through it all alone. But you had a dream, and you didn’t let your circumstances stop you. Look at all you have to show for it now.”

“Sure…now I have a little something. But there were lots of times, especially when Noah was younger that there wasn’t a lot in my life. I couldn’t give him things. We lived with my parents for what seemed like forever, and then a shabby apartment after that in a really bad neighborhood. Even now, though things are better, the rug could get pulled out from under me any time. After all, it’s just me. I don’t have anyone else to lean on really. My art is supporting my son and me. There’s not a lot of stability in that. That’s pretty scary sometimes. Sometimes I wish I’d taken a more traditional road like you did. You have a great life…nice truck, charge cards, beautiful home that you actually own, a life partner, decent credit…” she chuckled and he joined her as she continued. “I have this pseudo-bohemian lifestyle, a rented duplex, a used car in desperate need of some work…”

A Pillar of Regret

P.L. Caesar

Page 6

“You did what you wanted to do Sarah.”

“But you did what was right.”

“We still ended up in the same place though, huh?”

They both paused at that fork in the conversation. The sounds of Toto’s ‘Rosanna’ felt into the quiet.

“This was one of my favorite albums,” she said in a low voice, almost to herself.

“Yeah. Mine too.”

They listened to the yearning, mournful lyrics of their youth as the waitress brought out their food. Sarah’s head was bowed. She was saying grace. He joined her, lowering his head. When he heard her murmur ‘Amen’, he looked up at her. She smiled, and picked up her sandwich. He grabbed his utensils and began to slice his chicken.

They were both ready for their food so talk was temporarily suspended so they could eat. The silence that fell between them was comfortable this time because they had something to do. Toto gave way to Hall & Oates’ ‘One On One’. She vented her feelings by singing bits of lyrics between bites of food, and finally acknowledged the look on his face by saying, “is the nostalgia bothering you?”

He wanted to be truthful this time. “It’s hard sometimes, looking at the path in life you didn’t take.” There was a shift in the air around them. The veil was lifting now, and he knew it was because he was finally being completely honest.

She nodded as she chewed and swallowed. “That’s one of the hardest things to acknowledge about life. You can’t travel every road. Ultimately you only travel one, and hope for the best. But I guess hearing this music and being in your company today…it does sort of give us a chance to peek at the road not taken. I love Robert Frost. That’s one of the most beautiful poems in the history of words.”

He signed. “You’ve just seem so…free to me. I wish I were. I was afraid to be. I was afraid of what I might become if I was left to my own devices. As much as I cared about you, in the end I still didn’t do right by you even though I wanted to. And I never wanted to be responsible for hurting another woman like I hurt you. So I did what I thought was right. You did what you wanted to do, and your life still came out okay.”

“And you seem so…stable to me. Believe me, I wish I could be. But I know I’m selfish. I felt like I deserved it after what happened between us. I gave myself to you and …well…I just started being all about myself after that. Plus I was afraid I’d have all these regrets and longings if I didn’t give in completely to the desires of my heart, especially once I started writing. You did what was honorable. And guess what…your life still came out okay too.”

Not that honorable, he thought to himself. He had cheated on his wife during the early years when he still was rebelling against his choices a little bit. They went to marriage counseling and things were better after that. He had been dodging memories of his sex life with Sarah since she’d sat down at the table, but suddenly he felt too tired to run. Prince’s ‘Little Red Corvette’ joined in, providing an appropriate soundtrack for his thoughts.

Back then they spent a lot of time in his car, exploring each other. To this day he got an erection whenever he saw a pint of Hagan Daaz Vanilla ice cream because of one of their escapades. Once he got his own place they would often forgo dating and just wile away the hours in bed. Occasionally she seemed sad and withdrawn after they would be together, and it troubled him. He wanted to please her more than anything, and did everything his relatively inexperienced mind could think of back then to please her. He often wondered if she had orgasms with him, but was too embarrassed to ask.

A Pillar of Regret

P.L. Caesar

Page 7

“Why did you look sad sometimes after we made love,” he asked, almost to himself. Then louder, speaking more directly to her, “I mean, it wasn’t all the time. A lot of the time you didn’t but…sometimes you did.”

She met him head on. “Because sometimes I didn’t think you loved me. I thought you just liked having sex with me.”

“That wasn’t true at all. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t make you happy in bed. And you always made me feel so good.” He could still remember how every inch of her felt on him, next to him, under him, beside him, around him, over him, invading him from the inside out and the outside in, microscopic bits of her spirit clinging to his life…her eyes, her lips, her tongue, her hands, her legs, her feet. In all the years of marriage he hardly ever slept with his wife without thinking of Sarah. Sarah had learned not to think of him while being intimate with others, and left her memories of him for times when she pleasured herself.

She thought back to those days. She was still learning to be comfortable with her sexuality when they began being intimate. She was not at all experienced, and since he was older, she imagined he’d been with a lot of women and that she wasn’t measuring up. (She was too afraid to ask.) Sometimes felt like she wasn’t satisfying him. She feared that their closeness in the bedroom was what mattered most to him. Young women always worried about that kind of thing…trying to balance their desire to be respectable with their need for physical intimacy, and she was no different. It was a hard dance to do back then, and she never quite got the hang of it while they were together. But in spite of her insecurities, most times being with him gave her so much pleasure she felt compelled to hide it. And still did to some extent.

He had to laugh when he recognized the first few notes of Madonna’s ‘Like A Virgin’. He saw her face light up and he said, “they’re playing your girl.”

“I know they are,” Sarah said.

“I can still see you with all that clunky plastic jewelry on…the beads and bracelets and lace headbands and gloves. I could hear you coming a mile away with all that clanking racket.”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“Yeah you were. Remember the “Boy Toy” belt your mom wouldn’t let you buy?”

“Oh gosh, now I do since you mention it! I was so mad about that at the time.”

“And you lip synched this song at the talent show. Remember that weekend?”

She laughed hysterically, recalling herself eighteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter, clad in a skimpy white dress with a bustier top, writhing around on the floor onstage at the local community college.

“Where did you get that dress?” he asked. “It was pretty hot if I recall. I can still see it now just as clearly.” He became lost in the memory, and, finding it impossible to resist, she joined him. They smiled dreamily as Madonna sang, and he remarked softly, “you looked so good that night, I didn’t want to ever let you go.”

After the talent show (she’d won first prize), the two of them had gone out dancing, then to an all-night diner to eat, and finally they had collapsed in his bed. He wanted to undress her slowly and seductively this night, and he began working at getting her out of the outfit. The bustier part of the dress had at least a hundred hooks and eyes. He struggled mightily to get them open, trying to contain his longing for her and make his fingers work all at once. She began to help him after laughing at his struggles. Those moments were highly erotic for both of them, her helping him reveal herself, his fingers pressing against her here and there, together exposing her soft skin to his touch little by little, sharing in the quest to make themselves naked to each other. Just when he could take it no longer the last hook released and her breasts came fully into view. She unbuttoned his shirt slowly as he undid the buttons at his cuffs. The rest of the weekend they spent so enmeshed it was impossible to determine where she ended and where he began.

A Pillar of Regret

P.L. Caesar

Page 8

She’d finished her food and he was nearly done. Don Henley’s ‘Boys of Summer’ was on. The waitress brought them back into the present by coming to the table and asking if they wanted to see dessert menus. He looked inquisitively at her and she shook her head. He was torn, trying to decide if he wanted to extend their lunch, and decided he did. He asked to see the dessert menu.

She looked at her watch. “Are you sure you have time for this?

He looked at his watch. “Well, I’m going to make time for it today. Who knows when we’ll get together again? Plus the carrot cake here is excellent.”

“I thought maybe you were working up the nerve to proposition me. But since this is just about carrot cake, I’d love a piece.”

He had to laugh as he ordered two slices of cake. Once the waitress left he beckoned to Sarah. Their heads came closer together over the small table and he whispered to her, “you look really beautiful today.”

“Thank you.”

“There have been times when I’ve really missed you. Sometimes I’d go months and years and not think about you at all. Especially at first. Then, as I got older, something might happen that would make me look at my life, at what I’ve done with it and the first thing I’d always do is think of you. And then I’d think of you all day every day for weeks.”

She silently took in the weight of his admission.

He tried to finish his thoughts. “I know I can’t really offer you…anything now. At least half of my life has gone by, and you weren’t there to witness it.” He took a deep breath. “But I…I’ve missed…”

The look on her face stopped him.

It was the first really uncomfortable pause of the day between them. Her heart began to faintly ache. She chose her words carefully.

“Seeing you here today does make me look at my life and consider…other options I had. Maybe I shouldn’t have run off that day.”

“Maybe I should have caught up to you.”

“Maybe I should have written you a letter…”

“Maybe I should have followed you to your house.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have argued with you, and walked out that night…”

“Maybe I should have told you before I did it. Maybe I shouldn’t have ma…”

But Sarah cut him off. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

“Why not? Why can’t I say it?”

She sighed. He sighed too. ‘She Drives Me Crazy’ by The Fine Young Cannibals started coming through the speakers.

They both thought about how funny life was. It truly was a circle, and you eventually stood at every point in that circle, your perspective always rotating and changing as you learned about yourself, about others, about love, about sacrifice. The waitress brought over their carrot cake.

A Pillar of Regret

P.L. Caesar

Page 9

“Its funny to see you so willing to…throw caution to the wind,” she said thoughtfully.

“It’s funny to see you so unwilling to.”

They both laughed, somewhat nervously and a bit regretfully. No matter what you did, time had its way with you like an inconsiderate lover – it was only the manner in which it had its way that differed for each and every person.

Simultaneously, they picked up their forks and began to eat their cake. It was delicious, freshly made, chock full of bits of carrot and walnut, moist and covered with sweet sticky cream cheese icing. They both used their fingers to wipe frosting from their plates once the slices were gone, and laughed at each other. They each ordered a piece to go. She finally hugged him as they waited for the waitress to wrap the desserts, and they held on tight for a long moment to fully create the memory, making sure they would remember the feeling. They left the restaurant arm in arm. They were parked at opposite ends of the block, and turned to face each other, kissing gently and warmly on the lips. The gusts of cold wind became spring-like as their mouths touched. For ten seconds it was 1983 again. But as quickly as it came, it left. Like soldiers going off to war, they squared their shoulders, turned their backs to each other and marched off in opposite directions, each taking something sweet with them as they went. Both were afraid to glance back lest they turn into pillars of regret.


Video by Reuben Dubscience Greene

Check out Brand Nubian’s recent performance in Baltimore at The Bambou courtesy of Speakerbox Magazine’s own Reuben “Dubscience” Greene.


Previous Older Entries