“We’re trying to stimulate the boys’ pituitary glands, Miss Ceccini,” Charline smiled at her favorite teacher.

“Come on, Charline. I’m thinking,‘My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard and they’re like, it’s better than yours,’ isn’t going to stimulate anything other than Sister Karen’s demerit passing out abilities,”

“They don’t notice us,” Corrina whined.

“And we look good!” another added.

“Girls, come on…”

The girls looked adoringly at their teacher.  Tall and willowy, they were fascinated by her.  They loved her.

“It’s true, though…”

The teacher smiled, half despite herself, the other half openly because she knew they understood. 

While the girls were young in years, many of them had a certain worldliness about them, despite the conditions in which they lived: some in the bubble of elitism and exclusivity; others in a world of poverty and struggle.  The school accepted all, as long as they were driven to succeed, rising to the incredible burdens placed on them by teachers who pushed; administration who competed with other schools.  Marla had gone to such a school and onto the Ivy League, but couldn’t face a future of grad school reruns with nothing to show but another degree on the wall.

“Well, if you’re trying to get boys to notice you, don’t you think it should be for the right reasons?” Marla cocked an eyebrow and waited to see who would rise to the question – she herself wasn’t sure whether or not it was rhetorical.

“Oh, oh – if this is one of those, ‘Integrity, Honor, Discipline, Rigor,’ times I think I see my mom down on the street,” Monica, a bright and witty girl retorted, “Last time I checked, those weren’t listed on boys’ FaceBook pages as what they wanted in a girlfriend… it’s more like – “

“—Don’t,” Marla warned.

“It’s true, though, this school… it’s great and all, and I love it,” Alexis started, “but all this academic shit only goes so far.  At some point they need to realize we’re interested in the real world… boys… something other than algebra and bio,”

“I’ll take the bio!” Charline piped up again.

“Girls, I get that you’re interested in boys and that you don’t want a lecture about how Bryce girls should act…” she hesitated.  Marla prided herself on the fact that she never crossed the line and thought of her students as friends.  So many teachers made that mistake.

The uniformed girls tightened their circle around the teacher they respected and admired.  So many of their teachers seemed to be there because they wanted to grasp at the life they had wanted as teenagers.  Miss Ceccini was different: she’d come out of an elite school, too, and had chosen to come back – that resonated with the girls.  The fact that her trust fund wasn’t evident in every outfit, that she took the subway to work and drank her coffee from a travel mug the school had given her for perfect attendance or some other arbitrary indicator of “good teaching”.

“At some point you’re going to realize that there’s more to a boyfriend, or just friendships with boys, than talking on the phone and chatting on Facebook and maybe holding hands on the playground and then spending 20 minutes giggling about it with your girlfriends when you should be paying attention in R.E.,” she began, “You’ve got to find something they’re interested in, and talk to them about that – show that you notice and are interested.”

The bell rang and the girls scattered to their next class.  The next day, the girls double-dutched in rhythm… a new chant marking time.

Sara stretched, waking in the dark… not sure why at first.  Slowly, as sleep left her brain a little, she realized the phone was ringing.  The caller id glowed green, casting a reverse shadow on the wall above her nightstand.  She noticed the red light flashing – she’d slept through at least one call.

She knew who was on the line and she knew she shouldn’t answer.  But could she help herself?  Probably not.  Her cat watched her in the dark.  She wondered how much he knew.  Understood.  Judged.

The phone stopped ringing long enough for him to leave a message.

Emily stretched, waking in the dark… not sure why at first.  Slowly, as sleep left her brain a little, she realized the phone was ringing.  The caller id glowed green, casting a reverse shadow on the wall above her nightstand.  She noticed the red light flashing – she’d slept through at least one call.

She knew who was on the line and she knew she shouldn’t answer.  But could she help herself?  Probably not.  Her cat watched her in the dark.  She wondered how much he knew.  Understood.  Judged.

The phone stopped ringing long enough for him to leave a message.

And then it started ringing again.  And suddenly she found herself in the same place, with the same thoughts.  That she was twenty-something and attractive.  Thin, but not too thin with great curves and a killer smile.  And on top of this she was smart.  Successful.  Had versatile interests.  Was independent, took good care of her plants and her cat.  Had girlfriends who adored her and whom she adored.  Could tell a joke, order the right wine, drive, and read a map.  She travelled, read extensively and was published.  She played the piano, sang and had a unique, fantastic style.

And yet here she was, at two a.m. on a June night, alone in her bed with her cat, contemplating answering the phone and falling back into the same routine.  She hated to admit it: despite all she had to offer, despite her independence and liberation, she was completely hung up on this loser who was eight years older than she but still lived at home.  Who couldn’t break up with his needy college girlfriend and thought she didn’t know that.  Who’d disappear to visit said college girlfriend and then come back to her, fiercely passionate.  Guilt’s a funny thing.

The third time she picked up the phone, not even bothering to check the caller i.d.  She didn’t say anything, just let the phone stay tucked between her chin and shoulder, a cacophony of voices in her head.  Her best friend, her mother, her sister, the imaginary boyfriend she’d meet some day who’d treat her right.  She heard them all, and still waited on the line. 

“Emily?”

She couldn’t say anything.  So sick of herself and him she just sat, knowing what would happen.

“Em?  You there?  I’m sorry… it’s late,”

“Yeah, it's late,"

"I miss you, Em. I do,"

She felt herself choking up, the lump in her throat preventing her from screaming all the things she wanted.  He hadn’t even gotten there and already she felt used.

“Em?”

“It’s late, Jason, I need to get up early tomorrow.  I have a deadline,”

“You never write on Fridays,” It was like a punch in the stomach, the fact that he knew her routine.  She wasn’t one to discuss her work and yet he had been around enough to realize that no, she didn’t write on Fridays.

Sunlight streamed in, she lay diagonal across her bed.  Alone.  They’d woken around 4:30; connected silently in familiar rhythm.  After, she rolled to her side, crying silently into her pillow before cursing herself then falling back asleep. 

Now, at seven she walked to her full-length mirror, stripped slowly, observed the familiar lines of her form, checking from every angle.  She pulled her hair back, changed into her running clothes, could already hear herself asking the question, “How am I not enough?” knowing she was more than enough.

On her way out she missed the note he’d left on her desk.

The new day was here.  It was all around him – and in him.  In his heart and his bones.  In his blood pulsing through his arteries, veins and capillaries.  It fired each synapse; it tickled each dendrite.

He woke quickly, stretching, jumping out of bed, running down the stairs, following the scent emanating from his coffee maker.  He loved the smell, hated the taste, but he knew it meant she was finally home from her trip.

Running to the kitchen, excited at the prospect of seeing his wife for the first time in more than six months, he smiled broadly.

The kitchen gleamed clean white and stainless steel, no fingerprints or smudges.  The random small blue tile of the backsplash was reminiscent of the clean waters of the Caribbean.  He was reminded of her love for the blue waters and white sands, “That’s what we’ll do – we’ll sail to Bermuda,” he knew she would love the idea.

The dog stretched in the corner, from its bed in the sun, looked at him suspiciously.  The dog had more personality than most people.  “C’mere boy,” he patted his thighs.  The dog popped up to say hello, stretching again on its master’s form. 

He walked, barefoot, to the fridge with his glass.  Propping the door open with one cocked elbow he held the glass with the hand of the same arm and poured himself some orange juice.  He walked to the island, pulled out a stool and sat down, folding the paper the way he did every morning and picking up his pencil to fill in the Sudoku puzzle in the paper. 

The morning stretched on, the coffee maker shutting off, coffee darkening… thickening… he went on with his day, heading to the office, checking the flights to see if hers was delayed.

His housekeeper came, saw the scene she did every week: an immaculate kitchen with sludge in the coffee maker.  She cleaned out the pot, walked the dog, did the laundry.  She moved out onto his deck, watering the plants, checking his hothouse flowers (he was meticulous about caring for them and teaching her about how to raise her own) then sat at the table with his weekly stack of mail and his checkbook paying the bills.  Before she left she threw the letters addressed to his wife into the bin in the garage and brought it out to the curb. 

Before pulling away, she sat in her car and looked across the street to the private dock.  She saw him, shirt off, shoes off, jeans wet at the bottom where his feet hung into the water.  He was waxing his sailboat.  Again.  She was overwhelmed with sadness and a feeling of urgency, she had to do something.  But what?  She pulled the folded number from her wallet.  It had been in there for months, his daughter imploring her to call if anything happened, but she never knew how to have the conversation.  A simple message, “You have to do something.”

The young man sat across from the woman he knew would someday be his wife.  They hadn’t been dating long, but something had told him from the first time he saw her at the law library that she was the one.  And he’d never believed in that crap.  After the first coffee date turned into a five hour discussion of their deep, but secret, love of freshly sharpened pencils on paper, documentary films and COPS he couldn’t get enough of her.  He’d never seen her sad.  Passionate?  Yes.  But not sad.  Not like this.  “What’s wrong?”

“You would never understand.”

He woke up to sunlight and the smell of coffee, a smell he loved, wafting up the stairs.  Realizing his wife was home he ran toward the stairs – he mustn’t have heard her arrive home after an all night flight.  She’d been gone for so long.

Flying down the stairs two at a time he looked forward to a long hug and then hours spent pouring over pictures. 

He walked into the kitchen, shocked to see his daughter, a photocopy of her mother at that age, sitting at the island.

“Daddy, you have to accept that she’s not coming back.”

The task this month was to start a story each week... I don't think there were any sort of rules about finishing them.  The first one was totally silly.  The rest of them were just things that came to me.  Some were inspired by other pieces and some were just experiments in writing.  I'm not sure if I can really pick a favorite, but I am happy that I've completed all batches this year.  I'm finding it easier to write and also I love that I'm writing daily.  Hope to keep it up!  It would be nice to write forever.