Keyboard Shield

Had it been two weeks ago, the silence wouldn't have been strange. I wouldn't have been distracted and the Tetris blocks would have fallen as they should. But it's anything but two weeks ago and the blocks pile haphazardly to a Game Over while I stare at the little green dot in the corner of the screen.

The worst part, perhaps is the sinking feeling, the one even I didn't see coming and the unnecessary disappointment. It's not exactly like you're breaking tradition or any such thing. But when our brains shoot into overdrive, it's not often that we get to steer. I have a very vivid imagination. And such mercurial behavior makes me wonder...

When is the world going to grow up and realize we have to face our problems and people face-to-face and not hide behind the anonymity of a glowing screen and hypertext? I'm just as guilty as the rest. Colon parentheses--and I'm not obligated to actually say the words on my mind. Some nonsensical acronym and we're done conversing. Behind our keyboards, we're comfortable and safe and we can say anything without consequence.

It's so much worse to over-analyze black and white text and emoticons than the beautiful subtleties of the human face, human hands. Your gaze, your grasp, your tone and timbre.

Don't you just want to look into someone's eyes and say what needs to be said?

Conversations

They face off from opposite sides of the room, she perched on top of the table and he leaning against the door, clearly ill at ease. Suddenly the statement that "you could cut the tension with a knife" makes sense. It's almost hard to breathe. He runs a hand through his hair and looks heavenward. She uncrosses her legs and lets one dangle down towards the floor, swinging nervously.

For what seems like the hundredth time, she wishes awkward conversations could be scripted, like in Grey's Anatomy or something. There are never million year-long silences in an awkward-serious Grey's Anatomy conversations. Everything comes out right away, and even if the characters are scared of what their words might do, they say them without hesitation. Why can't life be like that?

He opens his mouth, blinks and closes it again. A soft sigh escapes his lips. Hers is louder and more intentional, an expression of frustration and confusion. For a split-second, his lips twitch, but then his expression is neutral again and she swings her leg anxiously.

After another long moment, he looks up and their eyes meet. Panic floods her system and she drops her gaze to the floor. Eye contact is just as awkward as the not-talking that they are becoming very good at. Oh, if this were television, it would all be so much easier. Maybe she should start scripting all of her conversations.

The silence is finally broken by the trill of a cell phone and she wrenches her eyes away from the linoleum, surprised into staring again. He reads his text message and then straightens up.

"I have to go." They're the first four words spoken in what seems like hours and she bites her lip at how unaffected they are. He breezes past her so quickly, she doesn't even realize that he's deposited a paper napkin in her lap. The door closes behind him with an obscenely loud bang and she flinches, fingers closing reflexively around the napkin.

It's several minutes before she can unfold it, fingers shaking and mind racing. Scrawled hastily in blue pen are the three words that were so hard to say out loud.

She smiles and crumples up the napkin, shoving it into her pocket. Maybe this scripting conversations idea is not so bad after all.

The Dance

Sometimes it's a waltz.

Steady and flowing,

Measured in beats;

Nothing new happens, everything repeats.

Occasionally it's salsa:

Upbeat and fun.

Infused and electric,

Moving as one.

Or when it's swing,

Flying and teasing.

Laughter abounds

But rarely does reason.

Usually it's ballet

Subtle and smooth,

Darting away from you

As in a chess-move.

It's silly to think this way

I'm well aware,

But I wish you'd just dance with me.

Dance and not care.