The man with the bag was scary.

Thomas ran toward his mother, his little legs pumping. He’d caught a glimpse of the man over his shoulder. He was tall and lean, and he wore a baseball cap which cast a shadow over his face. His facial features were lost in the shadow, except for his eyes. His eyes seemed to glow.

Up ahead, his mother turned and, laughing, called for him. “Come-on, buddy! Hurry up!”

Thomas threw his arms back and forth. He was wearing his new sneakers. They made him faster, carrying him away from the shadow man toward the safe embrace of his mother’s arms.

As he reached his mother, he dared to look back. The shadow man’s long gait had given him an unfair advantage. While Thomas ran as hard as he ever remembered running, the shadow man had lumbered at a leisurely pace, and yet, he was upon them. A cloud rolled across the sky and his face disappeared almost entirely, except for those eyes. And his mouth. Looking at Thomas, he spoke.

“Hey there, little man,” he said with a crooked smile. Thomas could feel his mother’s arms tighten around him. ?Stranger danger, ?he thought. ?Stranger danger, stranger danger, stranger danger!

Looking up to Thomas’s mother, the man smiled wider and said, “I have a grandson I reckon to be about his age. How old is he?”

Thomas’s mother loosened her grip.

Stranger!

Danger!

“He’s…uh,” she stumbled over her words. “Three!” she said, laughing. “I’m still getting used to using years instead of months.”

The man laughed with her, a deep, rolling belly laugh that sounded like Santa Clause in the cartoons.

“They grow up quick,” the shadow man said. “Like weeds.” The two adults shared a conspiratorial chuckle.

Meanwhile, Thomas was eyeing the bag in the man’s hand. Perhaps it held the secret to the shadow man. Maybe its contents would betray his motive, be it good or bad. Thomas stared at it intensely. The words on the side meant nothing to him, save for their blocky look and the dark ink in which they appeared to be stamped. The bag looked foreboding.

After a few seconds, Thomas realized all was quiet and looked up to see the man looking down at him. Stranger danger!?

“Wondering what I got, little man?”

Thomas didn’t move.

“Been out shopping. Got me some pants. But…I got something else, too.” He bent down, his shadow face coming close enough to Thomas that he could smell coffee and cigarettes on his breath. He scooped a hand into the bag and snatched something with lightening speed. Showing it to Thomas’s mother, the man asked, “May I?”

Thomas’s mother smiled and the man knelt. He held out his hand, and there, in his palm, was a handful of candy. Just as Thomas saw the candy, the clouds parted and light reflecting off the foil of the candy illuminated the shadow man’s face. He had a kind smile and gentle eyes. And candy. The shadow man had candy.

Thomas smiled then, too, and took the candy.

As they walked away, Thomas stuffing the first piece of candy in his mouth, his mother asked. “Why were you so shy back there?”

“Stranger danger,” Thomas said.

She smiled and knelt beside him, bringing herself eye-level with him. “Thomas, I’m glad you remembered that, but there’s no danger if I’m there. Momma won’t let anything bad happen to you ever again.”

Thomas supposed not. After all, the shadow man had candy and his mother’s approval, which was two things more than his father had.

Perhaps all men weren’t made of shadows.

Alone he sat, sank in his thoughts
Oblivious to the world around
As one thought drifted to the next
Only to return to that same longing

That longing to love and be loved
To have someone to laugh with
Share tears with
Someone to care for
For the rest of his days

Another year draws to a close
Minutes tick away
Days, weeks, months
Endless time alone
If only…
He had someone to call his own

Posts on this prompt:

All in a Nights Work by BandE

Wierd by Aniket

Post on prior prompt:

For Old Times’ Sake by Shruti

Kuniyoshi Discovered by BandE

They had been in love with each other since the time they didn’t even know what being in love means. Theirs was a relationship everyone envied. This was the very fact that made him struggle to keep holding her hand even when it stopped meaning anything to either of them.

She was attractive, elegant, reticent, intelligent and easily dominated. He was smart, well-mannered and a downright charmer. He loved being envied and she believed that the love was for her. Whatever be the reasons, their bond had survived for the better part of 14 years. He charmed her into submission and she drifted along. But he always credited himself with being an ideal partner. He was considerate, undemanding, unquestioning and responsive to all her needs and wants. Just one thing pricked him now. He needed to talk about it; not because she deserved to know the truth but because he needed to get it off his conscience. 
He was jolted back to reality when he realized that the waiter was offering him another drink. He gratefully accepted. He never drank too much, but the reason he avoided drinking was the very reason he gulped down another drink tonight – alcohol helped him blur out the truth. 
They went back to their palatial apartment after the party. Now was the time. He went and hugged her. She just looked at him, surprised. There had been no show of affection in this house for almost two years now. “I am sorry,” he burst out weeping. A faint glint crossed her eyes. He was taken aback for a moment but then thought he had just imagined it. He had to continue before he lost the nerve. 
“I have always been unfair to you. I promised to love you all my life but midway down the line, the warmth was lost. I could see you taking tremendous efforts to reach out to me but I didn’t respond. I apologize for all of it…”
His wife stroked a finger against her wedding ring. “I have always loved you, honey. What’s got into you suddenly? You even drank too much tonight. I guess you should just go to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
“No Susan, I need to finish what I want to say. I might not be able to bring myself to talk about this ever again. I always tried being a good husband, not realizing that it wasn’t enough. Then three years back, I met Alana. I was just too stressed by everything in life at that point of time. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel guilty about what I was doing. I tried quite a few times to end everything and come back home to you but something kept pulling me back to her.”
Susan looked on unblinkingly. He expected her to cry, be angry, break down, but she just looked at him. Her face refused to give away any emotion. After what seemed like an eternity, she took a deep breath. “Three years? Why? You kept me in darkness for three years! You left me struggling alone to keep our marriage going for three years! Why tonight…?”
“She met with an accident last week. The doctors tried their best to save her but she passed away two days back. I couldn’t even go to see her one last time. What would I go as? What relationship did I have with her? She upheld her repute while she lived, and I didn’t want to abuse it after her death. But I couldn’t live with the guilt. I had to confess to you…”
Susan smiled warmly. “I wish you would have told me sometime back darling. Alana might have lived. You might have lived! The police will arrive here any minute. They have received an anonymous package of photographs of you and Alana together. It will be better for you if you run off right now. I will tell the police that I know nothing of your whereabouts. That’s the least I can do. For old times sake…”

Crisp, clean, smooth.  Deceptively pure.  Yet, it was oh so dangerous.  The envelope stood smooth and quite present in the Coach bag Rohan had bought me for our six month anniversary.  I had begged him not to do it, but – he did – and now I was sitting on a crème leather couch eyeing a potentially explosive envelope nestled in it.  I knew it wasn’t Rohan’s fault, but I still couldn’t help but silently curse him.  Maybe if he hadn’t given me the purse, I wouldn’t have had the courage to write the letter.  After all, I wouldn’t have had a nice Coach purse to momentarily let it hide.

But, it wasn’t his fault.  He didn’t even know about the letter.   I began to tug on a persistent flap of skin, maybe I shouldn’t had  come.  I could have been in San Francisco right now with Bob and Laura, they were always so kind to me.  “Really, do you have to do that in front of me?!”  In a jerk reaction, I ripped the hang nail off my ring finger producing an oozing bloody mess – right on my mother’s crème leather couch.  “Now, look what you’ve done!  For God’s sake, Gabby.”

I winced at the recent flesh wound.  The pain never came immediately, it would dwell and then surface moments later like prickling reminders in case you forgot what you did.  Mom wasn’t interested in my injury though.  As crimson red droplets collected on the seat of her two thousand dollar crème leather couch, she turned pale and ran for the kitchen.  I knew some rags would be in tow when she returned.  And they were, pink ones – probably from my high school swim team sweatshirt.  She always told me she lost it.

I averted my attention to the towering Christmas tree while my mother pushed me to the wayside to save her precious couch.  If anything, my mom knew how to put on a good show.  It didn’t matter if she yelled at me hours before or risked her marriage by spending thousands on useless decorations and party favors, once guests arrived – my mom would put on an almost angelic face and greet these people like they were her husband and children.  Mind you – her husband and children were probably cleaning up her latest drunken fit in the kitchen.  But, that was my mother and while nobody knew what happened behind the scenes, everyone always enjoyed the show.  And that’s what counts, right?

My stomach flamed up in my pensive meditation.  I instinctively gripped my stomach, although that never helped.  The crystal star adorned on top of the tree was the main attraction, and it caught light sending rainbows reflecting like the new chandelier in the foyer.  I stood up quickly and floated over to tree while my mother harped on my careless behavior and how I was still acting like an empathetic adolescent.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I corrected her.  It was apathetic, not empathetic.  I didn’t bother to say anything though.  Her college degree never came to be, but my older brother sure did.

This year, the Christmas ornament theme was classy – red circular orbs dangling from an enormous, genetically perfect evergreen.  Gold tinsel was laced in between – not too much but not too little.  I never understood tinsel, but my mother sure did.  Her Christmas decorations were art and our house was a museum.  Personally, I never had an affinity for art and museums were never on my to-do list.  Yet, there was my mother with her nutcrackers and homemade gingerbread houses.  She did it better than the movies.

“Are you going to clean up that cut or stand in my beautiful living room staring like an idiot?”  She was angry now, I had upset the harmony of her beautiful night – and her audience wasn’t even here yet.  Don’t worry, Mom, the show will go on. No, I didn’t dare say that.  I glanced at my purse wondering if I should read that letter again – just to make sure it said all the right things the right way.

I couldn’t though.  She hurried me into the peppermint green kitchen to attend to my wound.  “Seriously, you could pay attention a little more Gabriella.  The guests will be arriving in five minutes and you have me cleaning up a silly cut like you’re a child.”  I cocked my head , trying to remember a time when she ever cleaned up my cuts as a child.  … Nothing came to mind.  The smell of fresh cookies wafted through the kitchen as the oven went off.  My mother dropped my hand hastily to attend to them.

While she did, I slipped away.  It was painful, but it felt right.  I forced on my coat wondering if I could still catch a flight to San Francisco.  Rohan and his family would be glad to have me.  As I was about to glide out the door, I paused and felt the cool, white confession lying in my purse.  I let it fall onto the coffee table and whisked away, hoping to never see my mother’s face after finally telling her everything I’d ever wanted to say.

You might think of me as a confident, self-assured, charming and decent person. What you don’t see is how much I am obsessed about having my options.  It might be a disorder but I got to have my options. I eat only at restaurants that have a buffet. Or at least a salad bar! I always cook more than one dish. I always have at least two pants, shirts, pairs of socks, shoes, watches, deodorants ready for the next day. I always have to choose between a few things. I am perfectly comfortable with infinity. I love the thrill of being conflicted, the thrill of working out the pros and cons, the glory of choosing one over many others, the feeling of power through it all.

And why should anyone think that my love life should be any different. I have always dated multiple people.  And whenever I have met new people, I have enjoyed the process of making a decision on which relationship should I be letting go. Of course I have been let gone too, but I have always managed to have options.

Being in the game for twelve long years I began to think it’s perhaps time take a plunge and get married! There are these two people that I’m seeing of late and both of them have been mildly suggesting the next step. But I can’t work with mere suggestions. I can’t assume my options and make a decision on one. My options have to be concrete. And that’s why I bought these two rings! Tomorrow I’m going to ask both of them. I am very nervous! I am going to be devastated if either of them refuses because that would mean that I wouldn’t have options to choose from.

But I do strongly feel that I will hear “yes” two times tomorrow! And then, there would be that period of extreme delight. Of choosing, weighing my options, letting one go and embracing the other.