My history with Sybil, to date

I meet Sybil in a dive bar, delectably. After hours of conversation, we’ve drunk our blue ribbon beer and eventually begin kicking over tables and chairs. We end up in a vocal fight with some of the regulars. Righteously, they demand we have respect for their bar. We argue that blowing off steam by kicking off some shitty yet sturdy chairs isn’t hurting anyone. Fingers are pointed, voices are raised. Progressively, people get involved until there are several knots of patrons shouting in each others’ faces. It’s like a whirlpool has broken up into several smaller, angry eddies, like when a baseball brawl transitions from one large scrum to several dueling pairs. I am kicked out of the bar and I can’t see Sybil. I walk home.

She and I are at the same party, and drunk again. Everyone’s trading clothing with each other; it’s a melee of garment swapping, and I emerge in orange. I’m wearing a too-tight orange t-shirt that says “I Love Carbs!” on it, orange tube socks, orange underpants, an orange bandana, and two slippers that were made to look like basketballs. Sybil is in red. I dance in my underwear, shaking my luminous ass. It’s raining, but everyone’s outside in socks, flip-flops, slippers, bare feet. Sybil is preparing to attack a piñata. I stand behind her and tie a yellow cummerbund around her head, putting a pair of green swim goggles over it to hold it fast. I’m wondering where all of these accessories came from while Sybil’s assaulting a Paper Mache Spongebob Squarepants with a broomstick. The small crowd cheers when she breaks the broomstick over the piñata, spilling Mexican hard candies and wooden splinters all over the wet sidewalk and lawn. The inevitable scramble ensues, made messier by sodden grass, alcohol, and lustiness. There is more dancing. Before she leaves, I ask for her phone number. She says, ‘oh good, we’re friends now.” I say yes.

I never call.

Sybil is at the coffeehouse, working. I am stretching a sore shoulder, left arm over right clavicle, head pivoted. I see her in the corner, watching me. We talk for a moment and I cut the conversation short with an abrupt goodbye. I return to my table. I wonder if I’ve hurt her feelings.

So I return to her table, using my exit from the shop as an excuse to stop by. This time, I grab the back of a chair, she takes her feet off of it, and I sit down. I am overcaffeinated and am talking in a rapid, attention deficient patter, but she’s laughing, so I’m sticking with it. She smiles appealingly. After a few minutes, I am leaving again. She invites me to her birthday party. I tell her I’ll be there . . .hopefully. Am I being coy? I don’t know.

And then I have these dreams. For an entire night it’s the same dream, or at least variations on the same dream. Sybil is there and she’s holding a four-year-old boy. The boy is my son and I’ve just become cognizant of his existence. I waver between confusion as to how I could have conceived this child, excitement at the prospect of raising my son with Sybil, and apprehension on how we’ll manage this boy, this burden. I wake up exhausted.