(A short story.)

1. WHINE?

I’d asked, Wine? mishearing the monks but no, they’d meant No Whining. Those Zen Buddhists in Santa Fe put up a sign in the office for visitors like me. They pointed it out to me silently. A teaching moment. But what were they trying to tell me? That I couldn’t talk about my ex like I did? Even though I was right? Honest? And it was all mostly fact based? I was not being passive aggressive, not like she used to accuse me. I sulked in my room and pretended to meditate as the sun crept over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains behind the retreat center. I wanted out but was stuck on too many levels.

I sat on the windowsill and thought of my ex and her brother. Her brother was my undoing. He’d made me cry. He’d gotten me drunk and made me cry. It wasn’t the first time he’d done exactly that, but it was the last time my ex talked to me. She’d found us in bed, well, technically, on top of the bed, but that was the kind of pedantry she’d disliked so much. I’d hid under the brother, wine, and stains on the sheets, that milky sunlight sneaking a peek at the miscreants as my ex lingered, loitered, and laughed from the open doorway. So much for that reaction, I’d expected shock, rage, screaming fits, even a smattering of disgust, or even some plain old jealousy. Nope. She’d laughed at us. What was so funny about seeing me naked with her big brother (and he was big)– that’s what confused me and I’m not referring to his size but to her flushed face and knowing mirth at our musky messiness. A month later and I still had no answers – she’d hang up the phone whenever I’d called. The messages were deleted, knowing her.

The Zen Buddhist center had found me a room and a job, a work-study trade for a month in Santa Fe. Alone. No phone. No internet. And no whining. There was detox tea though. And silence. And shuffling socked feet meandering about the premises early in the mornings. I found it peaceful and tried to talk to the monks about it, how this sober environment made me feel, the ache in my gut, the restlessness in my thighs, and they pointed to that damn sign, No Whining. I’d gone back to my room, shuffling in my own socks, thinking about wine instead. I like wine. It helps. But now, I have the rest of this month without alcohol of any type. No car, no walking in this heat, plus, I don’t know where the hell I am–not really–and no sense of direction is a dangerous thing when you’re in New Mexico. Too big a state for a mindless wandering in junipers and pinion. Or so I’m told by my neighbor in room 103. He told me to stick to the property as there are bears and cougars and rattlers and worse. What’s worse, I’d asked, and he’d opened his shirt to show scars across his stomach, fresh ones, and then the morning bell had rung, and we’d gone to meditation and by the time I remembered to ask him, he’d moved on to another place, another center, or so I’m told. I wanted to follow him, trace those visible wounds, trade them for mine, and drink a glass of Malbec with him under a vine, sharing our stories. That’s what I really wanted. Then the bell rang again. I was late. I stared out the bedroom window, thinking of leaving, but didn’t. I tucked in my shirt, slipped on the light blue crocs, and headed across the green to find a minute of peace within this silence.

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