From the Inside Out

I sat with my eyes closed. Letting all of the sensations wash over me, I experienced them one by one. The first was an olfactory assault of fresh ground coffee causing me to breathe in deeply. In that moment I recalled every cup of java I’d ever drank as if they had all swirled into one. Even without the benefit of caffeine I was swept away into a focused, lucid state.

     Next, I allowed myself to listen, really listen. Like an audio switch had been flipped, I suddenly heard the surrounding murmur of conversations all around me.  A man close by was talking to himself and muttering about how his order was wrong, again. Behind me I heard two women sharing everything private with each other. Then the loud sound of metallic grinding and a high pressure SHHHHHHHH seemed to silence the room.

     Licking my lips, I tasted the faint but earthy taste of my most recent sip of dark roast coffee. I could even make out the subtle hint of half and half that was my signature. Savoring the blend of bitter and sweet I swallowed.

     Awash in a sudden chill, I then sensed that someone had entered through the door right behind me. The air was cold and damp hinting that it had started snowing again. So much for it being the Ides of March. I shook my head in disbelief that spring was less than week away. But then I laughed out loud when I recalled how this day stood for deep betrayal. Today Chicago was forecasted to be betrayed by fourteen inches of snow. Keeping my eyes still closed, I pulled my coat up over my shoulders and basked in its reassuring warmth.

     Then I opened my eyes.

     After squinting due to the now bright lights, I looked about the crowded, bustling coffee shop. Like a beehive of addicts at scoring time, the patrons were either savoring their caffeine push or fidgeting in line to feed their need. With that thought, I seized my cup and took a large mouthful of coffee. Then I frowned as I always did when I realized that it smelled so much better than it tasted.

     Having completing the first part of my homework for my writing class, I stared down at my spiral three ring notebook uninspired. How I hated these exercises. Sure, I knew they were supposed to help me as a writer. But they felt so artificial, so constraining. Why couldn’t I just write and have it come out like flowing truth.

     With a deep breath I took another sip of coffee. I once again scanned my surroundings. Then I looked at my watch. It was only 7:36. A whole hour and twenty-four minutes to go. That is if she actually showed up on time, or at all. Suddenly, I felt a nervous chill and a little bit nauseous.

     It was right then that I truly remembered where I was and fully appreciated what was to happen later, right here at my favorite Starbucks.

     Violet Chalice Winters. Her very name flowed from the
lips like a line from a poem by Blake. So apropos since our cyber-meeting was on a poetry website. Sure, Deep Underground Poetry was not your typical mainstream online poetry site. But it did have this devil may care, in your face air about it.  As it turned out, it was the perfect place to meet the perfect girl … for me.

     I stumbled upon DUP (the name those of us who hung out there refer to by) when I was doing research for my novel. Yea, every aspiring writer needed to be working on his or her novel. Otherwise you’re not officially a member of the wannabe writer’s club. My murder mystery had a serial killer who left clues in poems. I didn’t know why, that’s just what the killer told me he did. Given that, I had to dabble in writing poetry again. But I knew I needed some help. Doing a search on Google I found DUP. That was almost nine months ago and I never left.

     Violet joined the site one week to the day after I did. Her user name was FEMME33. She entered my life and my heart when she first commented on “Scorpio Confessions,” one of the first poems I posted.

     I still could remember her words.

     “You are an amazing writer.”  

        That was it. Short, sweet and, yet, all the words I so longed to hear. Ever since I was eight I dreamed of becoming a writer. But I had to set it aside when my parents and the world made it clear that I needed to be “practical.” So when I went to college I studied civil engineering and erected a life of skyscraping practicality. After a decade of this, the house of cards collapsed. I quit my job and dared to dream again. I took a part time job as a bouncer at a strip club called Falco’s Inferno so that I would have my days free to write.
       
        Savoring another splash of deep roasted inspiration, I fondly recalled my blossoming romance with the poetic Violet. While my poems were mostly dark and full of introspection, hers were both erotic and playful. She was the bright sun and I was the dark, brooding moon I told her once via an instant message on DUP. Her quick quip was “Maybe the sun needs to tie up the moon and then give him a slap and a tickle.”

        Over the passing months we would both post poems and then comment on each other’s work. This was supplemented by IMs to each other about a whole host of subjects. It seemed as though nothing was taboo.

         Through it all I began to get to know her. How she was originally from Montreal and moved to the States when she went to Smith College. At that time she had lived in Amherst, Massachusetts, just three doors down from the house where Emily Dickinson lived and died. She also shared her love for dogs, greyhounds in particular, and how she volunteered at a greyhound rescue in the area.

         Despite all of this, I still didn’t know what she actually looked like. She hid behind her avatar, a picture of single violet, just as I did mine, the symbol for Scorpio. When I suggested that maybe we talk on the phone or Skype I didn’t hear back from her for almost a week. I thought had done something wrong until she finally messaged me. She apologized for the avoidance and then told me that she was self-conscious about her voice and her looks. So our only communication was through the written word … how poetic for two versifiers falling in love.

         Of course I would occasionally have serious doubts about the whole thing. I wondered if she might be an eighty year old grandmother from Nashville or, even worse, another guy playing a sick joke and laughing at me from behind Violet’s avatar. But then I’d get another IM from FEMME33 and once again believe.

         With time I learned more and more about Violet from her poems and our constant messaging back and forth. Despite her sultry writing and sunny voice, I discovered a hidden, guarded element to her poetry. The reason became clear when she entered a poetry contest on DUP. The theme of the contest was betrayal. Her poem, “What Mommy Doesn’t Know”, whispered like a little girl for all the world to hear. She had been abused by her stepfather. The wounded, vulnerable words stung me deeply and broke my heart. All I wanted to do was hold her and protect her from everything dark in the world.

        Looking back on it all, I guessed that was when and why I finally fell for her. As I sat there looking out the Starbuck’s window at the steady pile up of slush and snow of South Clinton Street, it seemed like I had always loved her ... like I would always love her. I sighed deeply and checked my watch again.

        8:11.

        Pulling my laptop out of my knapsack, I powered it up. With a click I accessed the Wi-Fi and logged onto Deep Underground Poetry. First, I checked my profile to see if I had any new messages, messages from FEMME33. Seeing one, I opened my inbox and clicked on her last communiqué. It was sent last night, after I had gone to bed. My heart sank as I dreaded the worst.

        “Still can’t sleep … guess you went to bed. I’m such a tangled knot right now. Nervous, excited, scared. So we’re really going to do this? What if we meet … and … it’s a disappointment. I’m a disappointment. Our relationship has been like a poem. Will meeting in the real world make everything … prosaic? I know what you’d tell me, stop worrying about it. So, I will try. Don’t worry about how to recognize me. Made that foolproof! ;-)”

        I sat and grinned, reading and rereading her last sentence. What could that possibly mean, I mused? Guess I was going to find out.

        To kill time, I went to FEMME33’s profile page and clicked on my favorite poem of hers, “My Poetic Crush.” It was dedicated to Dark_Scorpio, to me. Sitting back in my chair I read it slowly to myself aloud in a soft, reassuring tone …

“To bear tender witness to your soul
thus bared before the world
a cherry blossom clinging
helpless
in March’s cold, fickle rain
I hear your truth
a most fragile whisper
authenticity
spoken in its native tongue
poetry
thus
falling in love
from the inside out”
     
        Hanging onto the last lines I just sat and smiled. All the fog and mist of my doubt were now blown away by the refreshing breeze of her simple, honest poetry. I’d never felt such complete love in my entire life.

        Suddenly I got a message in my DUP inbox. It was FEMME33.

        “In the parking garage … looking for a spot.”

        I got all icy numb and felt light headed. She was early. The parking garage was right next store. It would only be a few minutes now. What was I going to say? My head was swimming. Part of me just wanted to leave, flee.

        Just then I knocked over what was left of my venti dark roast. Thankfully I rescued my laptop just in time. But my jeans were not as lucky. The stain was most embarrassing, zeroed right in on my crotch. Shaking my head I got up and went over to the condiment area and snagged several paper towels.

        Then she walked in the door.

        Leggy and tall, she looked like a supermodel. The girl was wearing a pair of high yellow goulashes over her tattered blue jeans. Draped in her arm was a bright red, “look at me” trench coat. A designer purse hung over the shoulder of her white silky blouse. All eyes became glued to her flawless beauty.

        But then the butterflies all swarmed in my stomach. Reaching in her coat she pulled out a violet and rose colored Chullo. With a smirk she slipped it over her long, bleach blonde hair. It was her. Violet had arrived. I started to make my way over to her, but the closer I got the more nervous I became. Until, finally, I stopped cold in my tracks.

        Her phone rang from inside her purse and she pulled it out.

        “Hey Trish. Yea, I’m here.” She looked around. I ducked back behind a display stand full of coffee beans.“No, I don’t think he’s here yet. Don’t worry, after all of the hype and buildup I’ll recognize him. Oh yea, thanks again for letting me borrow your hat!” Keeping the iPhone to her ear she put down her purse and fished around in it. “What do I know about him … hmmm. To sum it up in a word, loser. You know the kind of guy, all warm and sensitive.” She paused to listen. “You got it, the lovesick poetry type.” Chuckling, she pulled out a few wrinkled bills.

        Eyes down, I skulked past the bitch and made it back to my table. Without a word I mopped up the spilled coffee and what was left of my dignity. Then I gathered up my computer and backpack and headed towards the door. Over my shoulder I heard her now telltale laugh but I didn’t turn around. I could feel the whole coffee shop watching me retreat coward like.

        Not paying attention, I flung the door open hitting the unlucky incoming patron on the other side. I glanced up. Then I pulled the door back as I covered my mouth.

        I couldn’t believe my eyes.

        There she was wearing a simple beige raincoat and … a violet streak in her otherwise jet black hair. Her face was round with a powdering of adorable freckles on her snow white skin. As soon as her denim blue eyes met mine she smiled, then bit her quivering lip.

        “You must be Duncan!” Her voice tickled my longing ears like a downy feather.

        I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. I just basked in the poetry of the moment as the snowy flakes fell like confetti celebrating the arrival of true love.