in its shadows and knew its deepened corners well.
"What does that mean?" I asked, folding my arms and forgetting about my drink.
Audrey shrugged and wrapped her manicured fingers around the glass. "You know what I mean, Blake."
I shook my head. "No, I don't think I do."
"Jake became disabled, right?”
"Yes."
Her eyes met mine. "My sister became very sick."
Better. Burdened. Guilty. It was all the same, and then, I understood. I nodded solemnly and lifted my glass.
"To being the burdened twins," I corrected, using my own words.
But Audrey shook her head. "Not burdened, Blake. Just better," and her glass clinked against mine.
***
His face, like mine,
His height, the same.
But his mind is different,
And I'm to blame.
Starved and forbidden,
Unable to thrive,
They say it's a miracle,
He's even alive.
But what kind of god,
Shuns one of his own?
What kind of father,
Leaves his child alone?
Audrey waited at the table as I walked back, tearing up the poem as I went. An expression of horror blanketed her features as I returned. When I asked what that look was for, she questioned, "Why did you just do that?"
"Do what?"
"Tear it up!" she exclaimed exasperatedly, thrusting her hand toward my fist where the torn-up shreds of paper remained.
"What's the point in keeping it?" I countered, sitting down and grabbing my glass. It was my third drink. I never drank more than one, but tonight, it was three. Would there be a fourth?
"Because it's beautiful, Blake!" Audrey's volume had raised a bit since we'd arrived. It was also her third drink, and something told me she couldn't handle her liquor well.
I snickered. "No, it wasn’t. My shit isn't beautiful."
Her face fell with a crushing amount of sorrow as her hand pressed against her chest. "Oh, Blake. You ... You are so beautiful. You're so talented and gifted and your words are ..." She shook her head, planting her hand against her chest again and again. "Your words are your heart, and it's broken, but it's not ugly. You're not ugly."
"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," I scoffed, leaning back in my chair. "Talk to my shrink. She'll tell you how ugly I am."
It was a challenge, almost spiteful and bitter, and I knocked the rest of my drink back in one gulp. Audrey didn't so much as flinch when I brought the glass back down to the table with a hollow clunk. I wanted her to react, I wanted to see her jolt and quake with every shred of who I am. It was then that I suddenly felt the urge to narrow my eyes, twist my lips, and lean further against the table. I stared directly into her eyes, hoping to finally shake her up, to let her see just how hideous I was beneath the surface—a bitter, hateful thief.
With my nose just an inch from hers, I asked, "What the hell do I have to do to make you leave me alone?"
"Do you want me to leave you alone?" Her tone remained even and calm, instantly sober as her eyes held mine with a patience I hated her for.
"I—"
"Next up, we have Audrey!"
In synchronized fashion, we turned toward the stage and the owner of the club, applauding and welcoming her to the mic. Audrey didn't let me finish what I was about to say as she stood up and told me she'd be back, before climbing the steps into the spotlight. I held my breath, holding in the belligerence, as she cleared her throat and pulled out a sheet of paper from her pocket.
"This one is called He," she spoke in her pleasant voice, not at all tipsy-sounding, and began to read.
He is heated,
He is cold.
He is subtle,
He is bold.
He is honest,
He is lying.
He's barely living,
He is dying.
He is gifted,
He is blessed.
He is angry,
He's a mess.
He is broken,
He is fine.
He is wanted,
But he's not mine.
I could have thought of a thousand ways to interpret that poem of simple words. Who was he? Was it someone I didn't know? Was it me? I thought it was about me. I wanted it to be about me, even if there was no reason for me to believe it was. She hardly knew me, how could she write something about a man she knew nothing about?
And yet, there was that feeling that this was all meant to be. That maybe she did know me, maybe somehow, in some way, she really did ... Fate. Signs. Written in the stars. God. Plans. I shook my head at the insanity and climbed from