Dead Eyed Girls

It was spring. But only the beginning. One of those murky, cloudy days, when the air is just beginning to warm. Barely any snow left, yet the grass still damp and muddy. And that smell was in the air. You know the smell, when the seasons are changing. And the whole world is just on the brink of something.

I remember standing in my shower that morning. I can picture the moment, scrubbing my hair and thinking, dear God, now today you need to give me a sign. It seems foolish now to ask God for answers about such trivial things.

So the man I was seeing, he had been growing this awful beard for weeks. It was unsightly and uncomfortable (I had never kissed him without it) and every time we saw each other I pleaded with him to shave it off. "One day I'll just wake up and decide it's time and then I'll shave," he'd always say.

I had trapped myself on a kind of see-saw in the weeks leading up. Joy and happiness and comfort and love were at my feet, just waiting for me to say the word. But I really just couldn't decide if I liked it better feet in the air or on the ground.

So tell me lord, which way do I go? There's a problem with this idea of divine signs, I think. You can interpret almost anything as one. So I set up something concrete, there in the shower, getting ready to go see him. "Now if today is the day he shaves off that beard, I'll know which way to go."

I actually got myself pretty worked up over this. I remember the drive over to his place, rounding the bend and getting really nervous at the sight of his house. Normally I would go over in the evening and I'd tap on the basement window. He would look up at me from the sofa where he'd be sitting and waiting before coming to open the front door. But today I rang the bell. And when he came to the door, what do you know?

I nearly threw him to the ground hugging him and kissing his clean shaven skin. "I just felt like today was the day," he said. And I kissed him again and he said "Wow, you really hated that beard."