dripping glasses

i’m not against vaping, but man, vaping two inches from my face on the subway is a ridiculous asshole kind of move. this dude was billowing like he was auditioning for the role of haunted house fog machine. the humidity in the whole car changed, he was ruining haircuts. just jump starting the water cycle. condensation was dripping down my glasses. people were slipping off poles, it was chaos. it was like watching one man try to terraform the moon. a planet with one dense, root beer scented atmosphere blocking out the sun and choking all life. 

Regrets and a happy Smile

Hi guys! This is a follow up to the short one shot called “Teardrops and a Mug of Tea”. It can be read as a stand alone too. 
Plot: Harry’s heart hurts when he realized how big of a mistake leaving Y/N was.
Warnings: none, but it’s not proofread so there may be some mistakes.
Pic isn’t mine, but I love it.

“I don’t understand what’s so god damn hard about remembering to pick me up from the airport,” Kira nagged, her slim fingers holding onto her wine glass tightly, “How many girlfriends returning from her holidays do you fucking have, huh?”

“Just you,” Harry muttered, his gaze had long lowered from her face to his feet, both of his shoulders slack in discomfort.

“Then why is it you couldn’t be there on time like you promised?”

Kira let the content of her glass drip into the sink. Harry’s tummy turned and his heart beat rapidly as guilt ate away on his insides. Her feet noisily walked over to where he stood and he quickly looked up, too afraid it’d make her yell at him if he dared avoiding her eyes any longer.

“What has that head of yours so occupied and distracted, Harry?”

Y/N. She had his mind racing and heart beating fast. It was her face he saw whenever he blinked and every girl he looked at, he thought for a moment to be her. Even in his sleep it was Y/N’s image who kept reappearing and haunted him. His best friend. The first girl he’d felt at home with. And also the first woman he’d left after three months of trying to be in a relationship, even though he couldn’t have ever cared about anyone as much as he did about her.
Harry didn’t dare saying so, though and kept his mouth sealed. Kira would have had his head as well as Y/N’s. She did not like any woman near Harry and should she learn of his true feelings for someone else, he feared of what lengths she would go. Additionally to that, Harry had left Y/N because he’d wanted to, regardless of how much he missed her and regretted his actions now. He’d left a woman heartbroken and couldn’t find the strength in him to do it again and go back to face the girl he loved.

“Nothing, Kira. There’s nothing.”

Kira’s clear eyes focused on him with such intensity it made his hands sweaty and a shudder run down his back.

“Good.”

She gave him one last glare before stomping past him and into the living room, where she sat down on the couch from which she’d ripped Harry from his sleep only minutes ago. A couch, where he’d had his first kiss with Y/N and where he’d touched Y/N’s beautiful skin for the first time. They’d taken their time and gone slow, and so when he looked back now, he could still remember every sensation, every sound she’d made and every inch of where he’d kissed her.
Harry lowered my gaze in shame as he was consumed with an aching pain.

He couldn’t go on like this. Not one more day did he want to spend with the dreadful woman in his living room, and the girl he loved absent. But how could he possibly tell Kira that he had been wrong to allow her back into his life? How would she ever accept that he wanted someone other than her?

Four weeks had past since Harry had walked out of his love’s life and back into Kira’s, and since then he’d lost at least half of his confidence and trust. She constantly dragged him down with all of the negativity she surrounded herself with. Never did she say something nice or do something kind. Even her kisses were cold and her hold felt more like a grip and sometimes almost bruised him.

“I need to leave,” he whispered to himself, his voice barely a whisper, “I need to go to her and beg her to take me back.”

Y/N could make it all okay. Only one touch and she could mend all pain Kira had inflicted on him would be gone, just like it had been when Kira had dumped him to the side for the first time. How had he ever been so stupid to think the woman who’d thrown him away like an old toy, could make him happier than the girl he’d called his closest friend for years? What insane logic had been messing with his head?

“Kira?” Harry called out, “Could you leave? Please?”

He didn’t need to wait long for an answer, soon her feet were moving quickly and she appeared in the doorway.

“What?”

Harry swallowed hard, finding it difficult to look into her wide eyes. She resembled a woman gone mad, all flushed and distraught. She’d surely not expected me to try and kick her out.

“I want you to leave. And I wanna break up with you as well. This… us… S'not good for me.”

Harry didn’t like how much his voice stuttered, but he couldn’t look away either. Kira’s mouth opened wide as her pupils filled with anger.

….

His feet were cold and Harry couldn’t stop himself from shifting from side to side, his nerves continuing to slip through his fingers and he feared that when Y/N arrived, there’d be nothing left of him other than a pool of sweat on the floor. The flowers he held tightly shook just like his hand did and his throat felt too dry to speak. Harry could barely make out the driveway to Y/N’s apartment building it was so dark and he shivered, the cold air hitting his skin easily through the thin material he was wearing. After Kira had finally stormed out of his home there hadn’t been any patience left in him. He had to go see her instantly.
But now that he was standing in front of her home, he couldn’t muster up the courage to walk up the short way up to her door and ring the bell.

What could he say to her? That he was sorry? That he loved her? That though he had left her physically, his heart had always stayed with her? Would it suffice after he’d hurt her so deeply without even blinking?

Harry’s attention was caught by a movement in the dark and he looked up to see his former best friend, lover and closest companion, walking up the her home. Her shoulders were relaxed and his heart beat rapidly when he heard the faint noise of her laugh. Sickness crawled up his throat and his eyes stung. His Y/N was healthy, happy and calm, her hand held tightly by a man Harry didn’t know. He was tall, looming over Y/N similar to how Harry always used to do and his hair was of a light brown. Harry observed how the guy smiled when he noticed that Y/N was laughing because of him, obviously proud as well as happy with himself. An ugly feeling of jealousy cursed through Harry’s veins and he wanted to scream. Who was the guy? Why could he hold her when that was just what Harry wanted to do himself?
Harry watched in disbelief as Y/N and the stranger continued to walk up her driveway, until they stood on the doorstep Harry had imagined he’d be kissing Y/N tonight. The blonde still held Y/N’s hand in his, Harry even noticed him moving his thumb over her palm in a gentle gesture. Y/N lowered her gaze as a blush rose to her cheeks, a smile still pulling at the corner of her lips. She looked so good. Not just in the sense of her appearance being beautiful, but in her health as well. Y/N truly seemed to be doing good and having found something that made her happy. Or someone.
All Harry could do was swallow hard and blink rapidly, keeping his eyes from letting the tears fall as good as he could. His heart sank to the bottom of his stomach when the guy leaned in, not to kiss Y/N’s lips, only to sweetly kiss her cheek.

He was delicate with her, treated Y/N as if she were the most precious thing he’d ever touched and as though he couldn’t quite figure her out.

He treated her just how Harry wished he had, but had always failed to. Harry hadn’t ever taken his time with her like that, had always tried to catch a proper snog instead of a small peck and had held her so tight she’d remember his hold even after he’d left.
Harry regretted not having been gentler with her almost as much as he did leaving her. He missed his best friend so much and wished he could somehow change the present and go back those few weeks, so he would now be standing where the blonde was.

But that was impossible and his feet still felt incredibly cold as he stood there watching her doorstep. Y/N had long entered her cozy, little home and the guy had long driven off with his car, but only after he’d squeezed Y/N and having buried his head in the crook of her neck, breathing her in. So similar to how Harry used to hug her.
Though he was long gone and though Harry knew exactly where Y/N was, he couldn’t find it in him to move. He realized that it wouldn’t have been fair, and fair was just what he needed to be for her. Just once.
Y/N was happy. And that mattered most, even if it tore Harry’s heart apart, that she was doing well, better even, now that he wasn’t in her life anymore.

Hope you liked it! Feedback is welcomed, requests are closed. In case you requested something, I’m so sorry it’s taking so long! 

Rest of what I wrote can be found here: 

http://harryimaginedstories.tumblr.com/post/144920695218/masterlist

I got up on Election Day and burst into tears — not a genteel twin trickle but a great heaving burst, zero to firehose. Tears spattered the inside of my glasses, dripped from my lips, and left mascara-tinged rosettes blooming black in my cereal milk.

“Honey,” my husband crooned to me. “Honey, it’s going to be O.K. The numbers are still good. It’s O.K.”

But it wasn’t the numbers. I wasn’t sobbing because I was afraid Hillary Clinton was going to lose. That would come later. I was sobbing Tuesday morning because, as I poured my coffee, I’d caught a glimpse of a cable news interview with Mrs. Clinton just after she voted for herself in Chappaqua, N.Y. She seemed breathless, exhilarated, a little overwhelmed. Over her shoulder, Bill Clinton stared at his wife and beamed.

My husband stares at me like that sometimes. It’s not just love — we expect husbands to love their wives — but something less traditional, more conditional and gendered. It’s professional respect. It’s pride.

We’re accustomed to that pride flowing the other direction, from wife to husband, because men in our culture get to be more than just bodies, do more than just nurture. Men get to act and excel and climb and aspire and thrive and win and rule and be the audacious, hungry fulcrum of public life. It is normal for men to have ambition. It is normal for women to stand aside.

I thought about Bill Clinton meeting Hillary Rodham at Yale in 1971, and how tenacious and intense she must have been even back then, how undeniable and potent. Mr. Clinton describes the moment in his memoir. “She conveyed a sense of strength and self-possession I had rarely seen in anyone, man or woman,“ he wrote. “She was in my face from the start.” He says he once told her, during those years, “I have met all the most gifted people in our generation and you’re the best.”

And then I thought about Mr. Clinton rising steadily through his political career, on the track we have built for charismatic, competent white men. He must have known, every second, how good his wife was. Not just good, but “the best.” Better than everyone he’d ever met; better than him, even. And he watched her stand next to him and wait, and wait, and wait, underestimated and degraded and excoriated for wanting more out of life than cookies.

And she didn’t quit! She swallowed slander and humiliation and irrational hatred for three decades and she didn’t quit, and here she was, just a hair’s breadth from the presidency of the United States — the first woman ever to be trusted with the rudder of the world. He must be so proud of her, I thought. It made me cry.

I cried because I want my daughters to feel that blazing pride, that affirmation of their boundless capacity — not from their husbands, but from their world, from the atmosphere, from inviolable wells of certainty inside themselves. I cried because it’s not fair, and I’m so tired, and every woman I know is so tired. I cried because I don’t even know what it feels like to be taken seriously — not fully, not in that whole, unequivocal, confident way that’s native to handshakes between men. I cried because it does things to you to always come second.

Whatever your personal opinion of the Clintons, as politicians or as human beings, that dynamic is real. We, as a culture, do not take women seriously on a profound level. We do not believe women. We do not trust women. We do not like women.

I understand that many men cannot see it, and plenty more do not care. I know that many men will read this and laugh, or become defensive, or call me hysterical, or worse, and that’s fine. I am used to it. It doesn’t make me wrong.

But maybe this election was the beginning of something new, I thought. Not the death of sexism, but the birth of a world in which women’s inferiority isn’t a given.

That grain of hope glowed inside me until around dinner time on Tuesday, the final day of an election so openly misogynist that the question “Sexual assault: good or bad?” was credulously presented for debate.

Today doesn’t feel real. It is indistinguishable from fresh, close grief. But if there’s one lesson we can take from Mrs. Clinton, politics aside — and even Donald Trump acknowledged it in the second debate — it’s the limitlessness of human endurance. Those of us who have been left in the cold by this apparent affirmation of a white supremacist patriarchy (and sorry, white women who voted for Mr. Trump, but your shelter is illusory) are tough.

We have been weathering this hurricane wall of doubt and violence for so long, and now, more crystalline than ever, we have an enemy and a mandate. We have the smirking apotheosis of our oppression sliming, paw-first, toward our genitals. We have the popular vote. We have proof, in exit polls, that white women will pawn their humanity for the safety of white supremacy. We have abortion pills to stockpile and neighbors to protect and children to teach. We have the right woman to find. We have local elections in a year.

The fact that we lost doesn’t make us wrong; the fact that they don’t believe in us doesn’t make us disappear.

—  “Her Loss” by Lindy West in the NYT
8

Vietnamese Iced Coffee Ingredients:

  • 2 tablespoons Vietnamese coffee grounds (or similar dark roast)
  • 2 tablespoons condensed milk (or less if you prefer less sweet)
  • boiling water
  • crushed ice

Directions:

  • Add the condensed milk to a heat proof glass or mug.
  • Add the coffee grounds to the phin filter, screw on the press, and place the filter over the glass.
  • Boil water.
  • Bloom the coffee grounds by adding a small splash of boiling water to the filter.
  • Fill with boiling water to the top of the filter, cover with the cap and let drip into the glass (~5 minutes).
  • Remove the filter from the glass and stir the coffee to combine with the condensed milk.
  • Pour the coffee into a tall glass full of crushed ice and enjoy!
Holtzmann Imagine

You sat lazily on your computer chair, chin resting in your hand as you swayed the chair back and forth, gazing out at the window while raindrops drip onto the glass, leaving intricate patterns in their wake.

Being someone who worked at home meant that you always found yourself getting bored incredibly quickly from just staring at a computer screen all day. Hacking into security systems and infiltrating information for the top secret company you worked for could be exciting every now and then, but mostly it was all politics that didn’t catch your fancy at all.

“(Y/n)?” The voice of your girlfriend, Holtzmann came from the halllway as she came up behind you and resting her chin on your shoulder. “Are you coming to bed tonight?”

You sighed heavily, letting your eyes shut for a breif moment. “I dunno, I haven’t assessed how much work I have left.”

Jillian glanced over at the screen covered in a series of numbers and letters. “You’ve been pulling a lot of all-nighters lately.” She said, the slightest amount of concern in her voice.

“Could say the same for you.” You said with a small laugh as you turned to place a kiss on her cheek. “But don’t worry about me, my body’s become attuned to it.”

“I don’t think that’s a good thing.” Jillian said as she turned the chair around so you could fully face her. “Come on just for tonight, sleep with me?” Jillian wasn’t unfamiliar with multiple all-nighters in a single week, but that didn’t mean she wanted you to go through them.

You hummed, listening to the soft sound of thunder outside. “Give me ten minutes, I’ll be there.”

Jillian leaned forward and placed a full kiss on your lips as she drew you closer with her hands. “I’ll be counting.” She said, poking your forehead.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.” You said with a laugh, twirling the chair back around and finishing up your work.

sorry for the gentle things

candy teeth

“the lady at the counter said that you could help me? I’m looking for the right thing.” she motions for me to open my mouth, plucking out a lump of cotton candy. “your teeth are rotting from sweet nothings. learn to say something or nothing but not at the same time.”

The guilty one

The softest puff of moth white wings flutter a heart beat twitch. They do not fear the knife sliding, from tip to curve like flowering figs. Sweetly necrotic pomegranate flesh perfumes the air, clings to shivering bones no water will cleanse. “I didn’t feel anything but how hot my hands were.”

Just a sip

stormy nights drip into my glass but they do not cool my throat. The taste of moss has dried it like a bog fire. The will o’ wisps that tell me to close my eyes against the heat evaporate, light on rising steam. It hurts with familiarity. Of being consumed so helplessly. 

Violet delights

Lavender buds fall from tea stained hair, each one falls against the sweet grass as fractured crystal. “If you keep running you will break everything.” Blood warm lips curve to mirror the red moon above. The sound of bare feet unhesitant. It sounds like stars falling in love with gravity. 

Father

wailing

fists pounding the carpet

bloodied knuckles

smeared along the floorboards

dripping

glass eyes

fill kind sockets

He hides it from me

I turn away

blocking it out

getting out the door

for the open air

to protect me

I sit in the driveway

catching my breath

waiting for sanity

waiting for sobriety

waiting for death

to save me

-A