Three Words: Ship, Candle, Leaves

The perma-press crease of her uniform pants stood out in sharp relief. Mine, by comparison, hung limp and impotent. Fishing line, she told me, was the secret. Ironed into the fold, it kept the fabric from relaxing, no matter how many times through the wash. Her father, ex-marine and current social recluse, taught her that. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

One night I found her curled up on her front porch, knees tucked up to her chin, eyes shut tight, hands over her ears. Sounds of battle poured from the house.

Her feet scuffed the ground, scattering leaves as she made her way to my car. Her pants were perfect, oblivious to the chaos in the air.

"Everything okay?"

"He's been drinking." She shrugged like that explained everything. Maybe it did.

Her life, to the rest of us, shone bright, but never quite came into focus. Like the wavering light of a candle.

"I'm sorry." I wanted to hold her hand, but I didn't think she'd let me. I gripped the steering wheel white-knuckle tight.

The scenery slipped by. The giant Mrs. Peasner and her tiny dog on a string. Mitze. The automall with row after row of brightly polished reasons why my beat up '82 Huyndai wasn't good enough. The harbor with one lone ship, white sails billowed in the wind. I drove past our turn and took the interstate, determined to keep going until her heart unclenched.