A guy gets on the elevator right after I do and when the doors close, I look over.  He is really cute! 
"Hi".
"Hello" he smiles and looks back to his phone.
"What floor are you headed to?"
"The ninth." He replies never taking his eyes from his phone.
Silence.  Look at me guy.  There are just the two of us in this elevator.  Look at me!
"Oh, you must have an appointment with an attorney at Benoit, Johnson and Star."  I utter, trying to make conversation.
"Yes, I do.  I have never met this attorney, but she comes highly recommended."  

I wait, looking at him with a questioning stare.  Come on guy, you can do better than that.
"Uh, her name is Ms. Star." he stammers.
I smile.  "Oh, I know her.  She is a great attorney.  I don't think you will be disappointed."

“That’s what I have been told.  She seems to be the best in the city.  I guess that is why it is so hard to get an appointment with her.”

I just smile and nod.
The elevator ascends to the ninth floor and for some reason the doors won't open.  I turn and smile at him, shrug my shoulders and push the 'door open' button.
Nothing.  The guy looks irritated.
"It will be ok.  This happens sometimes." I lie, trying to reassure him.  I push the emergency button this time and we wait in silence a few more minutes.
He is looking frustrated now.
"What is taking so long?"
"It won't be too much longer."
"But if I miss my appointment it could be months before I can get another meeting with Ms. Star." He complains.

“If she is on her way to work, she can’t get up to the ninth floor either. We are in the only elevator, and I doubt with a skirt and designer high heels she is going to take the stairs.  Just relax.  Things will be fine.”

The cute guy looks a little less flustered, but still anxious.

“I’m sorry I am a bit short tempered right now.  I have been waiting for this appointment for quite some time. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”  He looks at me sheepishly from underneath gorgeous long eyelashes.

“I understand.  Ms. Star is very good at her job and I know she has a number of clients who require a great deal of her time.  I am glad you were able to get an appointment with her.  May I ask what it is you are meeting with her to discuss, or is it too personal?”

“Ummm.  It is kind of personal.”

As his arm brushes mine when he reaches around me to push the emergency button again, I jump from the almost electric shock I feel.  He looks a bit startled as well.

We smile at each other awkwardly. 
Just then, the doors open and we both breathe a sigh of relief.  I wander into my office, slip off my boots and put on my designer high heels and wait for my new client to arrive.
My office door opens and Carol, my secretary, ushers in the cute guy from the elevator. 

"I'll never forgive you as long as I live!" I shouted at Candy.  She just smirked at me as if she could care less if she were in my good graces or not.
"My children already hate you!" I yelled again, trying to find anything to break her triumphant attitude.
"He will just cheat on you too.  He cheated on me twice."  There, a flinch.  I found her area of doubt.  How do I capitalize on this and make her squirm and hurt as much as I do?
"I bet he plays his ukulele and sings you songs.  Those are the only songs he knows and he sings them to whomever his current love interest is."  Now I smirk as I see her smile falter. 
"I told you from the beginning that you are just a number in his long list of conquests.  He is not capable of loving anyone but himself."  There must have been a ring of truth because she scowled at me.
"It's alright, it's alright."  I placate with sarcasm.  
"He will tire of you and move on to someone else he sees can advance his career or his image and need for admiration."  She stares daggers because she has yet to master the english language.  I am sure she is thinking some really horrible Russian curses right now, but uttering them will just sound like gibberish to me so she remains silent and hostile.

The weird feeling I had earlier in the evening returns tenfold.  Alarms go off in my head and I am not sure what the emergency actually is.  Jared looks at me with an evil glint in his eye and says:  "You didn't actually believe we were coming here to have a picnic did you?"  The shock I was feeling must surely have shown onmy face because Jared let out a short bark of a laugh.  He then wrapped his arms tightly around me and began roughly kissing my neck.  I tried to struggle free but was then pushed to the ground and held down fast.  My 105 lb. frame was no match for his bulky football physiche.  I could yell and hope the group we had seen earlier were still around.  I could continue to struggle and hope he gave up.  I could throw myself off of the boulder and hope my landing below wouldn't result in injury or death.
How did I get myself into this situation?  Jared began pawing at my clothes, loosening and removing them while still holding me down.  Tears started streaming down my cheeks and my throat caught in with a strangled sob.....

Jared asked me to go on a picnic dinner date with him Friday night.  We had been on a few group dates together and this sounded like fun, so I said yes.  All day Friday I had butterflies in my stomach anticipating the evening.
Jared picked me up, we drove to the base of the mountain and then he told me we were going to hike to a secluded spot he knew of for our picnic.  I got a little weird feeling in my chest but passed it off as being excitement.
We began the hike.  About two thirds of the way up the trail we came upon a group of people and I recognized one of the guys so I stopped to talk to him for a minute.  Jared stood impatiently to the side.  My friend asked where we were going and I explained about the picnic.  He looked at Jared and then turned to me and quietly said "be careful."
Jared and I reached our destination.  We spread our blanket on a large boulder outcropped from the mountain that had a flat top.  We sat to enjoy the view of the valley below before beginning our meal.  The sky was just darkening and the first few stars twinkled down on us.  The moonlight was becoming the brightest in the sky.  Jared leaned in and kissed me.  The surprise and pleasure banished thoughts of the picnic dinner waiting to be unpacked.
My stomach growled and I started to giggle, breaking the spell.  To my dismay, Jared did not giggle but looked annoyed.  I smiled and reached for the picnic basket. When I opened it, there is nothing inside.  I turned, confused to look at Jared.  He just stared back with a menacing smirk....

I am described as shy, cute and fun.  I will beguile you with my perceived innocence.  I flirt in subtle ways that endear me to you.  I do have a motive in wanting to capture your heart.  I want out of this miserable existence.  I want a good future for my son.  You are the means to this end.  Your fascination with China, your arrogance in underestimating my intelligence just makes you an easier target for me to prey upon. I don't care that you are married; being your mistress will elevate my standing with my peers and my family.  My area of expertise is to relax you, make you vulnerable and release endorphins in your brain so that you will automatically associate pleasure with me.  This ensures you will keep coming back, making it easy for me to help you believe we have a connection.  I never intended for you to leave your wife.  It was fun being treated like a princess.  Getting trips and gifts and letters.  Your intensity scares me.  I was not sure if this attention was focused on me or merely a need to feel connected to someone.  I did not want the responsibility of being your wife.  How could I trust you when you were dating me while you were married?  My plan to use you to better my life has been successful, but at a cost I did not anticipate.

I am not catholic but I wear rosary beads.  I was born in Mexico, the second son to intelligent natives.  I am a third generation Mormon and even served a mission, also in Mexico.  So why the rosary beads you ask?  I have found great solace in incorporating other religious practices into my spiritual development.  I find that when I meditate the rosary gives me something to focus on.  The smoothness of the beads as they slide through my fingers is a pleasurable sensation.  I count each one over and over again, letting the repetition carry my thoughts to a deeper plane.  I am able to relax and feel and sense all around me.  Wearing the rosary beads reminds me to stay centered, focused and present as I engage in life.

The Battle

by Michael Roberts and Becky Roberts 1996

     Dinnertime!  The war-cry booms through every room, hallway, closet, pipe, and cobwebbed corner.  Small insects and other microscopic creatures fearfully scamper.  Its echo pricks the battlefield instincts of the child warriors; but to the once mighty steel-hearted warriors, who years ago plundered the earth, but who now roam aimlessly as simple parents, the call twists and nearly breaks their aged nerves.

     The arms buildup!  At the dinner table, battlefield preparation begins.  Each child warrior quickly secures its weapons of war: a fork, knife, spoon, cup, plate, and all other artillery little fingers capture.  (A spoon drops; pick it up).

     Hope!  The parent arbitrators cry for peace; their petitions point heavenward.  But who will offer the prayer?  Negotiations break down; tempers flare anew; hopes sour.  But somewhere, somehow, through the turmoil, a voice offers grace.  Peace, lovely peace.  (A spoon drops; pick it up).

     A broken truce!  Soon a plethora of complaints are filed with the haggard arbitrators.  Voices clamber, discontent boils, and soon, hot tear stained cheeks breathe fiery contempt to the token parent arbitrators.  Without notice, missiles fly; punch is spilt, its radioactive components contaminating the battlefield.  More napkins are called for to dress the wounded.  (A spoon drops; pick it up).

     Retreat.  Soon, but not too soon, all ammunition is digested, the troops tire, and the delight of destruction dissipates.  Fatigued, battle-worn child warriors finally retreat.  Calloused by daily carnage, the arbitrators trudge through the battlefield to tend the injured and clear the waste of war.  (A spoon drops; leave it).

     A new battle wages.  The troops are again gathered and the child warriors are given their assignments.  There is outrage, indignation and rebellion.  The troops are stripped bare and thrown into the water. The child warriors are alternately submerged then emerge with shouts of protest. The removal of the debris of war is scrubbed from the raw, pink skin.

     New Uniforms.  Each child warrior is dressed in new skivvies and fatigues.  There are supplies to be acquired and inspections to be made.  The hair, the teeth, the little hands and feet all need to be examined to meet regulations.  Once each child warrior has passed inspection, they are assigned to re-establish order from the chaos they created during the recent battle.  This too is met with protestations of innocence and fingers pointing to those deemed guilty.  Once again the arbitrator is called upon to pass judgment.

     The ritual.  There are violent, tear filled negotiations as to who chooses, how many and which arbitrator will participate in the ritual of The Story.  The lot is cast and both arbitrators are called to duty.  The troops separate according to their assigned bunks and the ritual begins.

     Respite.  The troops slumber.  The arbitrators toss with restless dreams of another day of battle looming on the horizon.   The expectation that alliances will be formed between the arbitrators and child warriors is slim.  The fitful dreams continue for there is no peace when the call of dinnertime rings its troublesome sound and stirs the blood of the child warriors once again.

No words need to be spoken as I reach down, my hand is grasped in a strong grip by a sticky little brown one.  I smile as I feel the smoothness of his palm against mine.  It surprises me how his little fingers wrap nearly around my whole hand, they are long fingers for such a little hand.  I feel the trust in his clasp and I squeeze a bit tighter.  The holding of his hand gives me a sense of responsibility for his safety.  A feeling of joy creeps up my arm and settles in my heart at the knowledge that the linking of our hands matches the linking of our hearts.

His hands were very tan.  They were full of character and I enjoyed watching him gesture as he spoke.  I was fixated on his left hand as he wrote on the chalkboard.  A South Paw huh?  Then I noticed the faint white line at the base of his third finger.  It was only a shade lighter, as if a ring had recently been removed.  Is he widowed or divorced?  Either way he is recently single, or he is just like most guys and married at home but nowhere else.  He lowers his hand and my trance is broken.

What I first noticed were his hands.  When he spoke he used his hands with dramatic flare.  They were long and narrow, yet large.  Each fingernail was clipped to a uniform shortness.  There was a smattering of dark hair on the backs with a patch missing over the wrist bone.  The lines on the palms were deep and clean.  He had a callous on the palm pad near his third finger where his ring must have rubbed.   He used his hands for emphasis and to add expression that perhaps his face or voice could not.