Zoe & Sophia Do NYC and Enjoy Family, Friends and a Wildly Sexy Nightlife with Twenty-Somethings

May 14th, 2010

May 14th
Please send your ADVICE to two single women, whose lives are suddenly crashing in chaos! Zoe and Sophia, BFFs for thirty years, find themselves unexpectedly cast into the world of re-creation and redefinition after decades of being faithful wives to George and Marty. They need advice from anyone willing to help them. For instance, what advice would you and your BFF give if you asked each other, “WHAT’S IN THESE GRAB BAGS THAT WE CALL OUR MINDS?” Any advice you can give to Zoe and Sophia would be helpful, but this is what they said to each other.

Blustery air spat rain sideways as the ferry pushed through the harbor. The shoreline rose from the water, piercing the night, indelibly framed by the lights of Manhattan.  Zoe stood on the deck, her face to the sky, arms wrapped around her waist, leaning against the heavy glass door that stood between the cabin and the deck. Ferry lights against the darkness gave her a sepia flush, like the faces of women Anders Zorn painted a hundred years ago. Chill wind whipped her hair from her forehead as she slowly turned her head, revealing calm eyes and a slender smile. Surrounded by strangers pressing against her, Sophia stood inside the warm cabin, looking out through the glass door, nodding as she returned Zoe’s smile.

Zoe and Sophia stepped from the docking ramp and scampered into the terminal, swept along by other night trippers anxious to embark upon their evening excitements. Pushing open their umbrellas, Zoe and Sophia ran from the ferry terminal to the nearby subway station to catch the Number 1 train going uptown. Once seated in the jostling car, Zoe and Sophia sat, heads bent, as they studied a map, searching for the cross street on Seventh Avenue that would put them closest to the jazz club, their destination.

“Now, how do you know this guy, Sophie?”
“Samuel B and I were lovers years ago when he was a student at Berklee College of Music and I was at Emerson.”
“It’s pretty cool that he’s a famous jazz guitarist now.”
“Actually, he’s been famous for a long time, and he’s one of the kindest men I’ve ever known.”
“Too bad you didn’t marry him.”
“Fuck sake, Zoe, I was nineteen at the time. Over the years Samuel B and I kept in touch and saw each other occasionally when I lived in New Your, but it’s been well over a decade since I’ve seen him. I’ve been stuck in New Hampshire far too long.”
“Ya think,” said Zoe. “But, Sophie, I thought you loved New Hampshire.”

“I did, until Marty cheated on me with Fugly.” Sophia was referring to his husband’s girlfriend who was married to a famous musician, but whose father was someone really famous, Famous Father. Two years before, Fugly approached Marty to become involved in a project being funded by Famous Father. After several months, Fugly and Marty began their affair, and when Famous Father discovered it seven months before, he pulled his money and collapsed the project. Fugly moved out of the marital home, leaving behind three young children she saw on a visitation schedule. Marty moved in with Fugly, forming a new, part-time faux family, and the two enjoyed the support of the vast fortunes of Fugly’s husband and his father.

“I understand why you need to leave New Hampshire, Sophie.”
“I know you do. All the associations are devastating. Plus Marty’s a prick to me, as if I were the one who had the affair instead of him. I just want out.
“Amen, sister,” laughed Zoe. “It’s time for both of us to get the hell out of New Hampshire.

“My biggest regret,” said Sophia, “what breaks my heart in two, will be living so distant from Poppy, Fonzi and Lily, and you, of course.” Sophia was referring to her amazing daughter, Poppy who lived with her wonderful husband Fonzi and her beloved daughter Lily, just a few miles from both Sophia and Zoe. “But being in close proximity to Marty is emotionally crippling me.”
“Okay, change the subject, Sophie. You know it makes me crazy to talk about your move.”
“I’m sorry; you’re right. Let’s just enjoy this trip. Who knows when we’ll take another one together.”

Above ground, the women dashed through the downpour until they found the address of the jazz club. But what they found was nothing, no marquee, no sign, no lights.
“Fuck sake, where’s the club?” asked Zoe.
“I don’t know. I Googled where Samuel B would be playing on today’s date and this was the address.”
“What year, Sophie?”
“Ahh, I assumed it was this year.”
“Well, unless we’re in the Twilight Zone, I think the information was old.”
“Shit. Well, we can’t stand in the rain all night. Let’s walk to the West Village. There’s gotta be music there.”

A half hour later, the friends were sodden and cold. The frustration of their search had sapped a measure of excitement from the evening. They huddled in a doorway out of the rain as Zoe searched her Blackberry for jazz clubs in the West Village. Once they began hunting again, they discovered that other clubs had also gone out of business. Finally, they walked into a place where a group of aging musicians played big band tunes, not the thrill they hoped for, but at least the place was dry.
“I’ll have a scotch,” said Zoe to the bartender as she threw Sophia a flat look of disenchantment.
“Make it two,” said Sophia, ignoring Zoe’s vibe.
The bartender asked if they wanted to run a tab.
“NO,” said the women loudly in unison. They had no intention of spending their entire evening listening to big band tunes.

When the band broke for a few minutes, Sophia flagged down a saxophone player and asked him about other nearby jazz clubs.  Zoe sat with pen and paper, poised to write down names and locations, but Sophia began reminiscing with the sax player as they discovered friends in common, including her old lover, Samuel B.  Zoe smiled politely and nodded absently, wishing that Sophia would get some useful information. Soon after the musician finally gave Zoe a few names to write down, a tall, handsome fifty-something man walked up to them.  He was introduced as a well-known trumpet player. And just like that, Zoe’s apathy vanished. When the trumpet player spoke, it was obvious he was a Brit, and his charm disarmed both Zoe and Sophia. After the two men wandered off, the women decided to search for a better club.

As Zoe and Sophia walked to the front door, they discovered that the Brit trumpet player, Jon, lingered there, almost as if he were waiting for them. He stepped up, blocking their exit and asked if he could take them to another club. Zoe and Sophia followed him as they hurried through the driving rain until they reached a tiny dive called the 55 Bar on Christopher Street, a place that had been around since 1919, surviving the prohibition era. People were tightly crammed in, nearly spilling out onto the sidewalk. Mike Stern played guitar with a bass player and drummer, and their sound was so intense that Zoe and Sophia didn’t care that they had to stand, spines flattened to the back wall. Jon flirted with both women, but they were mostly impervious to his attentions so enthralled were they by the music. The crowd thinned a bit after midnight, so the three of them were able to find stools at the bar. Jon sat in the middle and bought a round of drinks. Sophia leaned over the man to catch Zoe’s attention.

“We both have to work in the morning,” said Sophia. “Don’t you think we should get going?”
“Let’s just hear one more song,” pleaded Zoe.
“Stay. Stay,” urged their escort. “The trains and the ferry run all night.”
During a break after the next tune, Sophia turned to Jon and asked, “Are you married?”
“No,” he said.
“Where do you live?” asked Zoe.
“Right around the corner,” he answered.
When the next song ended, Sophia again caught Zoe’s attention. “Zoe, we will be exhausted in the morning. We should go soon.”
“Stay…stay,” urged the Brit.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Zoe asked him.
“Yes, but she lives north of the city.”
Two songs later Sophia said, “We need to go.”
“Just one more song, Sophie.”
“Stay…stay, the trains and ferry run all night long,” chimed the man yet again.

Zoe and Sophia were beginning to suspect that Jon the Brit had formed a vision of how the evening might end, which included Zoe and Sophia as a package deal. Since this wasn’t the first time they had encountered this objective in men, they pretended not to notice. Finally, after a round of friendly kisses and hugs, Zoe and Sophia bid goodnight to a pair of disappointed eyes on the face of the handsome Brit.

After a scant four hours of sleep, Zoe and Sophia were hard at work at two tables they set up for themselves in the living room of Emily’s Staten Island apartment. Emily was Zoe’s youngest daughter who attended college in Staten Island and had a boyfriend named Zee.  Emily happily offered to have Zoe and Sophia stay at her place during their working vacation.   Although the apartment had two bedrooms, one of which Zoe and Sophia shared, Emily had fallen asleep on the couch a few feet from the work space, and no amount of clamor seemed to rouse her. What neither Zoe nor Sophia knew was that Zee was also asleep on the couch. They didn’t know Zee was there because he was so skinny that his body disappeared into the crack of the couch, as if he’d been swallowed by it.

Sometime late morning Emily’s curly-haired head popped out from under a blanket, and she lurched from the couch toward the bathroom in a panic that she had to hurry to class. Only then was Zee’s dark, sweet face evident as he opened one eye and saw the two women’s startled faces staring at him from across the room. Zee was a rapper who sometimes played night clubs, so morning was not his time. He gave the women one huge, white-toothed smile then flipped over, threw the blanket over his head, and disappeared once again into the crack in the couch. In a few minutes, Emily emerged from the shower, her petite, yet voluptuous body, wrapped in a towel. She kissed her mother and “aunt” good morning then fled to her bedroom to dress.

“They must have gotten in later than we did,” said Zoe.
“I didn’t know that was possible without it being morning,” said Sophia.
“Ah, youth. How’s your writing coming?”
“Okay. How’s your work going?”
“Really well.”
“Are you gonna have time to do any sightseeing during the day, Zo?”
“Nope. I gotta work days, but you should go.”
“Nah. I’ll wait until later in the week when Poppy, Fonzi and Lily get here.”
“Yeah. We’ll all go.”

That evening, Zoe and Sophia wandered through the West Village breathing in the excitement. As they walked down Christopher Street, past a shop selling leather and sex implements for many tastes and persuasions, a man suddenly stepped into their path. He was a young, gay, African American, with bulging eyes a broken front tooth and quite drunk.

He grabbed Sophia’s arm, pressed his face into hers, and spewing spit through boozy breath said, “You have recently been betrayed by someone very close to you and your heart is broken.”
Sophia’s eyes widened. “That’s true.”
Then he lurched toward Zoe, cupped her head in his hands and said, “You’ve spent your whole adult life  caring  for others, and now it’s your time.”
Zoe laughed in amazement. These were the very words her therapist spoke in her last session.

After reeling off several more astonishing, on-point facts about Zoe and Sophia, the weird, young man finally let them in on his secret. He claimed to be an angel sent to earth to communicate specifically with certain people, and Zoe and Sophia were on his list. Each time the women tried to walk on, their “angel” encircled them with his energy, touched their hair, and spilled another revelation from his lips. Several times Zoe and Sophia glanced at each other helplessly, trying to convince the man they had to leave him behind. But they were careful to exert only gentleness in their words and gestures. After all, no one wants to offend an angel.

“That was different,” said Zoe.

“That’s  New York City, baby,” said Sophia.

On 3rd Street off McDougal they found the Village Underground. The house band was jumping and so were the clientele. Zoe and Sophia swooned at the Blues, Reggae, Funk and R & B music. They were seated at a table right in front of the band, next to an elderly Spaniard, an artist, who held a sketch pad in his lap. He studied Zoe’s face for a few minutes then reached for his pastels and drew Zoe’s portrait. When the Spaniard was finished sketching, he jumped up, held out his hand to Sophia and twisted his old limbs into some serious dirty dancing, until his wife softly intervened and led him back to his seat before he keeled over. Several other men asked Zoe to dance while Sophia watched. Finally, Sophia decided to dance by herself, and as she did so, she made eye-contact with the man who sat at the table behind hers. Working up a nerve she generally lacked, she gestured for the man to join her. To her amazement, he agreed.

Sophia thought her interpretation of the music was artful and sexy. Unfortunately, her dancing included wild spinning circles, and she flapped her arms in such a way that she knocked into other dancers frequently. Her spastic footwork didn’t have quite enough room on the small dance floor, and at one point she tripped and fell face-first onto the platform stage. The two pretty female vocalists looked down at Sophia, smiled, and continued their dance steps, but delicately, so as not to step on Sophia’s head. As Sophia rolled over mortified, she looked up at the gorgeous lead guitar player, who bent down, hand outstretched and helped her to her feet.

Pretending as if nothing had happened, Sophia smiled brightly at her bewildered dance partner, enticing him not to flee the floor. Since he was a gentleman, he kept on dancing. After three more songs, Sophia tried talking to him, but the music was so loud that she heard only the word soup he shouted in her ear. Sophia nodded toward tables at the back of the club, and he smiled his assent. Once seated outside the ear-shattering zone, Sophia learned that he was an Argentinean economist who worked for the government in Washington, D.C. He hailed from Russian Jews who fled Russia in the 1920s. The mere mention of Russia launched Sophia into one of her favorite topics, Tolstoy’s novels, none of which her scholarly companion had read. Half way through explaining the plot of War and Peace, Sophia saw her companion’s eyes glazing over, so she asked him whether he was married. He was. And because of this fact, the good man was spared the plot of Anna Karenina.

Later in the week   Zoe and Sophia devoted an entire evening to checking out girl bars in Manhattan. Sophia’s recent discovery of the show The L Word prompted this adventure. In order to sleep on nights she was particularly tortured by her current emotional devastation, Sophia watched DVDs of The L Word’s six seasons. She talked about the show’s characters as if they were actual people in her life. Anyone who knew Sophia well, knew that this was not the first time she had pushed through grief by adopting a stable of imaginary friends. Anyone who loved Sophia, accepted this oddity of hers. It kept Sophia from living permanently on Planet Nuts.

Although Zoe and Sophia met scores of friendly, fun-loving lesbians, they realized that Hollywood embellished the glitz and glamour of such places. Big surprise there. On the ferry ride home that night, Zoe turned to a sleepy Sophia and muttered something.
“What did you say?” asked Sophia.
“I didn’t feel right in the lesbian bars. I felt like an unfair imposter.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not a lesbian. So, I felt I was deceiving them because they probably thought I was a lesbian.”
“How do you know what they thought? Anyway, that’s not the point. You like women as people, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Well, what’s wrong with hanging out exclusively with a bunch of women?”
“Nothing, Sophie, it just felt dishonest because women were flirting with me.”
“Do you feel dishonest going into a straight bar and talking to men who flirt with you, but whom you would never dream of sleeping with in a million years?”
“No.”
“Well, how’s that different? People are people. I like hanging out with only women sometimes. It’s not about sex. It’s about camaraderie.”
“Hum. I don’t know. I still felt like it was deceptive.”

“Try this on for size,” said Sophia. “Are you black?”
“No,” said Zoe, bewildered by the question.
“Do you feel like a fraud if you go to a black neighborhood and eat in a restaurant where you’re the only white person?”
“I’m not tracking, Sophie.”
“You have a simpatico with black folks because your children are bi-racial. So, you actually like being in all-black environs. You don’t feel like a fraud in that situation because you don’t connect it to sex. You simply like finding commonality with people different from you.”
“We might be at an impasse on this one, but I hear your point.”

As the week crawled along, Zoe and Sophia awaited the arrival of Poppy, Fonzi and Lily, but they didn’t anticipate the ensuing turmoil. Poppy, unaccustomed to cities, arrived one evening in the vortex of a complete breakdown. Fonzi explained delicately, while Poppy was out on the porch downing a glass of wine, that Poppy had come unhinged on the George Washington Bridge, screaming for Fonzi to pull off the bridge someway, somehow. But it was a bridge, after all.

The next day, when the whole gang visited the Statue of Liberty, Poppy wasn’t much better, and she clung to Lilly like tree fungus, casting caustic glances at every poor passerby, terrified that someone would sweep Lily away and sell her into white slavery. Lily wasn’t entirely white since Poppy herself was bi-racial, but that was beside the point. Poppy was a good-natured, brilliant woman with a lovely face, a zaftig figure and a booming laugh. Absolutely nothing frightened Poppy in the wilds. But put her around throngs of humanity and tall buildings, and her laugh was replaced by hyperventilation. At one point Lily begged her mother to let her go off with her “cousin” Emily and the Zee man, to get a hotdog on the back side of Lady Liberty. Well, Poppy’s panic was like a vapor blowing out of her eyes and ears as she screeched, “NO WAY,” scaring everyone around, including the pigeons.

Poppy tested Fonzi’s patience, but the man was bred to kindness and compassion and his adoration of Poppy was unflappable, so he figured out ways to reassure his wife without wringing her neck.

Lilly noticed nothing but the wonder of newness. Her beautiful, dark eyes took in every detail as her sharp mind compared facts about New York City that she studied preparing for the trip, with the reality of the city she observed. And her delight at several characters who shouted to themselves as they attacked invisible foes was just as forceful as her enthusiasm for Ellis Island. She only wished the grown-ups had as much energy as she did, and patience– especially when she did things like hang her athletic little body upside down from the grip bars on the subway as if she were on a jungle gym.

As for Poppy, the only thing that tranquillized her was on the final day, when everyone went to the Empire State Building. Fonzi took the young people to the top, and Zoe and Sophia took Poppy shopping. It was as if Manhattan itself sighed deeply. Poppy’s cure wasn’t cheap, but it was effective. By the time the group reunited in Central Park for lunch, Poppy was downright giddy.  In fact, she was so relaxed that she only flinched when Lily rushed up to a man who was dancing in the street.  Lily beamed then gaily danced with the man, a lunatic dressed in a pink tutu and black Converse sneakers. But nothing appealed to Poppy as strongly as the next dawn, when the little family set their course for home. By then, Poppy longed for the lakes, the moose, the deer and the monastic life of a country girl.

Since it was the weekend, Zoe slept in. When she finally awoke, she went in search of Sophia and found her in Emily’s tiny yard, on her hands and knees, planting flowers.
“What time did the kids leave?” Zoe asked. “I vaguely remember them coming in to kiss me goodbye. What are you doing?”
Sophia looked up curiously. “What’s it look like? Nice hair by the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your bed head sets a new record.”
“So what? You’re covered in dirt.”
“Duh. I’m gardening.”
“This is our last full day. What do wanna do, Sophie?”
“I wanna see Harlem again.”
“I’ve never been there. Sure.”
“Let’s shower and see if we can catch the ten o’clock ferry,” said Sophia.

Once out of the shower the two friends rubbed moisturizer over their slender torsos and long, lean legs. After drying their blond hair, their eyes met in the bathroom mirror as they applied subtle makeup to their faces.
“Zo, you won’t believe what happened this morning.”
“What?”
“Marty thought he was sending Fugly a text, but he sent it to me by accident.”
“No shit. What did it say?”
“It was hard to make out the context, but since he addressed her by name, I knew it was for her. He told her to “get fucked” twice. I guess paradise is eluding him. I wrote him back.”
“What did you say?”
“I wrote ‘What starts in chaos–ends in chaos. And BTW, you sent this to me by mistake.’”
“Holy shit. Did he write back?”
“Nope. I guess he’s figuring out he’ll never have the standing he wants with his new faux family. Marty likes being king of the castle. But Fugly will never move over, trust me. She and Marty are so narcissistic, that they are bound to eat each other’s faces off.”
“Would you ever go back to him if they broke up?”
“Nope. I know who he is now. I don’t need a coward who lies and cheats. I just hope he doesn’t show up on my doorstep looking for “mommy comfort” when I get home.”
“He is such a dick wad, Sophie. Please remember how shattered you were last month when he came home, wanting to reconcile, and then after a couple of weeks went right back to Fugly.”
“I won’t make that mistake again, Zo.”
“Not to change the subject, but if we go out tonight, we should try to get back at a reasonable time. We have a long drive ahead tomorrow.”

By early afternoon Zoe and Sophia emerged from the subway at 125th Street in Harlem. Zoe began snapping pictures of landmarks like the Apollo Theater as Sophia perused the street vendors’ wares. Zoe kept waiting for the Harlem she read about and saw in movies to jump out at her, but it never did. Instead of dashing black men in fancy suits, escorting minxy blues singers in evening gowns, she saw families out for a stroll on a warm spring afternoon. Instead of sensing danger and excitement, she sensed benign ordinariness, a place where people were friendly and helpful and didn’t seem to notice Zoe and Sophia more than they did anyone else.

Late that afternoon Zoe and Sophia were back in Staten Island, packing their bags so they could make an early departure the next morning. In the evening Zoe and Sophia drove with Emily and Zee back into Manhattan. Emily dropped Zoe and Sophia at The Jazz Standard so they could hear Samuel B, Sophia’s old friend, agreeing to pick them up ten-thirty.  Although Sophia had spent the drive obsessing on seeing her old lover after so many years, she needn’t have worried.

When Zoe and Sophia stepped out of the car, the first people they saw walking down the street toward them were Samuel B and his colleague, Piano Man. Even in the darkness, Sophia recognized Samuel B.  Years slipped away like rain on a leaf, and Sophia walked hurriedly toward her old friend. His kind spirit reached out to her, entwining her in a time when life was fresh, full of awe, and barely weighed down by experience. They embraced each other for several seconds, and then pulled back, smiling into each other’s eyes. Love never dies, Sophia thought to herself.

Inside the club,  Sophia and Samuel be caught up on each others’ families then Sophia’s failed marriage came up.  Try as she might, Sophia could not staunch the tears. She realized it had been a long time since she looked into the eyes of a truly compassionate, selfless male friend who wasn’t consumed by insecurity. She felt so grateful to be reminded that men like Samuel B moved through the world and that perhaps someday, she would meet another one like him, a man she could safely entrust her heart to, without fear that he would crush it and then discard it as worthless.

Zoe and Sophia listened raptly to the amazing music the band created, but at ten-thirty they met Emily outside as promised. Something about her encounter with Samuel B diminished Sophia’s ever-present sorrow, and she suddenly felt so tired, that she curled up in the backseat and fell asleep. Zoe’s internal disposition was just the opposite. She was bucking to keep the night young. So, instead of dropping them in Staten Island, Emily invited Zoe to go to Brooklyn to meet Emily’s girlfriends for a late supper.

Near midnight, Sophia awoke with a start from a happy dream she tried to remember, but couldn’t. At first she wasn’t sure where she was, then within seconds, she remembered she was in the car. Sophia heard Zoe admonishing Emily not to park too far from the curb.
“Where are we,” called Sophia, still supine in the back seat.
“At a Caribbean restaurant in Brooklyn,” said Zoe. “Get up. We’re going in for dinner.”
“So much for an early night,” said Sophia.
“Emily’s hungry, and her friends are eating here.”

Emily and her friends were well known in the crowded, dark restaurant, which featured goat stew, jerk chicken and steamy Reggae music. Her two friends were tall, stunning black women who were sharp as a rose’s thorn and bursting with joi de vivre. With petite, exotic Emily in the middle, the three swept through the room to the table as the heads of men swiveled. Zoe and Sophia, the only white people in the place, took up the rear. The drinks menu made Sophia blush with names like “Lay Me” and “Triple Orgasm.” Zoe and Sophia laughed so hard at the young ones’ stories that they had trouble keeping food in their mouths. Time slipped and slithered to a euphoria, a feeling neither Zoe nor Sophia wanted to let slide away.

By early afternoon the next day, Zoe looked at Sophia in distress.
“What did I forget? I know I forgot something.”
“No, you didn’t,” said Sophia. “Where are we?”
“Still in Connecticut. We should be crossing the Massachusetts border within the hour.”
“I’m gonna need to pee soon, Zo. Are you hungry?”
“I need gas anyway,” said Zoe. “We’ll pull off at the next exit.”

Just then, Zoe’s phone rang.
“It’s my lawyer. Should I answer it?”
“Of course.”
Zoe listened for a little while then ended the call.
“My divorce is final,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Why are you crying?”
“Passages, finality,” said Zoe, blowing her nose. “Plus I have to pay George a shit load of alimony.”
“Zoe, it’s been a long road to get here.  You’re finally free, apart from the indentured servitude of alimony, of course.”

“Was that a Buddhist thing, Sophie?”
“Sounds like.”

As Zoe drove onto an exit ramp just after reaching Massachusetts, Sophia heard a text message blinging. She looked down at her phone and saw the text was from their friend, Jackson, the man who owned the house she wanted to rent in Florida.
“What’s up?” asked Zoe.
“The house in Florida is now empty, and I can move in anytime.”
Sophia began to cry.
“Why the tears?” asked Zoe.
“Relief, fear, pain. I know I’ve wanted to move for months, but now that it’s real, I’m scared and dreadfully sad about leaving my family–and you, of course.”

Zoe pulled into a gas station. She turned to face Sophia, and they stared into each others’ eyes for several seconds, watching the ambivalence of their choices dance then droop then dance again in their thoughts. Finally Zoe said, “WHAT’S IN THESE GRAB BAGS THAT WE CALL OUR MINDS?”
Sophia struggled to respond. Helplessly, she cried, “I DON’T KNOW. WHAT IS IN THESE GRAB BAGS THAT WE CALL OUR MINDS?”
Zoe just shook her head then reached out her arms for Sophia to hold her.

Hours later, as dusk filled the sky, Zoe pulled into Sophia’s driveway.
Sophia gasped. “Why is Marty’s car here?”
“Fuck sake, Sophie. Let’s just drive on to my house. You can stay there until you find out why he’s at your house.”
“No. I’ll go in. We’ll talk tomorrow. Thanks for a wonderful trip. I love you,” said Sophia, pulling her luggage from the back seat. Zoe watched her friend as she robotically dragged her belongings up the walkway. Sophia didn’t turn around before the front door slammed behind her.

That night, Zoe and Sophia moved along their new groundless paths in darkness. From time to time each wondered whether the other was thinking about their undefined futures, about the story yet to be written with words they’d never seen, about the picture yet to be painted with colors they’d never used. They balanced on the pinpoint of time called the present, recognizing the past was irretrievable and the future impossible to predict. The only thing Zoe and Sophia knew for sure was that they were off on another adventure as The Sublime Consumers of the Lightness of Being.

To be continued…but nearing the end of “Season One” of the Adventures of Zoe & Sophia.  Remember, to read the whole story, begin with the first post.  Easiest access to earlier posts is to click on bolded dates on the calendar to the right of the story.

Rate this: 
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)
Loading...Loading...
Categories: Uncategorized

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
  1. Younger Man
    February 5th, 2012 at 21:00 | #1

    Yes. Love is an absolute; it never dies and there most certainly are compassionate, selfless men who are not consumed by insecurity, but I cannot be sure how many of them are musicians lol, and it is unlikely that real men of the hopeful variety, such as these, arrive in a worthy and deserving woman’s presence having always been that way. Even if that is what the feminine perceives and especially if they got away in the past.

    Perhaps, to appropriate the words of PJ Harvey: men may have “climbed over mountains, traveled the sea, cast down off heaven, cast down on their knees, laid with the devil, cursed god above, forsaken heaven,” to bring you their love… a boy once blind, who can today see the world as a man, is someone who can be entrusted with a heart. But what is the advice here?

    “WHAT’S IN THESE GRAB BAGS THAT WE CALL OUR MINDS?”

    Thoughts. The past predicting the future. The only heart that can be broken is the one that is hard and still filled with the closest thing to an opposite of Love: Fear. The sooner we can lose ourselves, not in relationship but in every moment for what it is, the sooner we can reopen our hearts, let go of the past and find love if we do not seek it. Embrace the unknown, live for The Unanswered Question(s), and when your heart is truly open and you can trust your feelings, fall freely. Believe.

Comments are closed.
%d bloggers like this: