My Cardboard Balcony

That Awkward Moment by Belinda Roddie That awkward moment when your weirdo ex who likes to camp out with the bees and bears wakes you up one night with a rambling text about fire and grizzlies and underwear left out to dry after a cold creek swim, but then a yellow jacket nest was kicked, and now the chance of pain-free days is slim since bee and wasp stings make your weird ex sick, and antihistamine just makes them slur and sway and get all incoherent, so they figure, why not send out a great blur of words that trail off into vertigo, and confuse you at two AM: Just stare at your screen and remember you don't care.

I wanted to hold you in my arms, but all I could do was say, "I'm sorry for your loss." I wanted to dry your tears on the sleeve of my suit jacket, but all I could do was hand you a flimsy piece of tissue. I wanted to walk with you along the coast after the service was over, taking off my shoes and feeling the sand between my toes - a reminder that I was still alive, that you were still alive, that we were going to probably be alive for a long time, even while others died. But all I could do was watch you weep, and breathe in, and breathe out, and taste the air.