Four Paths with Bigfoot

Chapter 7 Humans Connect on the Outside

First night of group guided mediation had come and past.

The group sat on mats in a circle around the fire pit, the fire and the lights on in the cottage were the only source of light for miles on the land.

Nicey was ready to go home.

She knew she had been such a downer most of the day. Talking about herself, sharing to people who did not give a fuck.

But they were polite, she was Fort's girlfriend after all.

All the details about her life. 

The traveling.

Backpacking through the Andes,  laying on the beach in Mallorca, chatting to a young gondola driver on as he navigated the waters in Versace sunglasses in Venice.

Working.

A contemporary dancer in Berlin, a nanny in Spain, the personal assistant to a no nonsense woman in London.

Experiences that mattered to Nicey.

She knew they were not that impressed, they lived far more glamours lives, she imagined, but she felt safe to speak less censored.

Still they praised her, nonetheless, so she absorbed it just as she did the rays of sun.

People who pretended to see her, she felt like a solid piece to body, which was better than she often felt like.

A flesh bag that was nothing and had nothing anymore.

Up early, working making coffee, all but one of the men were in their beds; the chef.

Sneaking down the stairs of the modern rustic styled cottage, Nicey is carefree not to make too much noise in her fluffy red socks, she is a pro at this.

Polished wooden floors that she makes a note to avoid staring at, she could see her reflection.

"God I look so rough,"

Frowning at the hollowed out looking Black woman that was her.  Tangled kinks and curls pulled into a dry bun.

So many grey hairs had sprouted recently, she was only thirty eight, ancient she guessed. Fort was twelve years older than Nicey, but he looked like he could be in his early forties.

She had witnessed their individual transformation.

Fort's skin was getting tighter, though he often marveled at her ability to fall asleep so quickly, he was now sleeping well, despite his denial of this.

She was usually the one chain smoking, she was the one with the more pronounced lines on her forehead now.

Deep sunken dull bags under her now gaunt face, look exaggerated, on the stretched version of her on the floor.

"Ew."

When she packed her bag she clearly did not put much thought into the clothes she brought. She had cuter appropriate but sensible cottage clothes. Quality soft linen pants, cotton sweat pants, flared yoga pants. Fun band t-shirts and novelty t-shirts that referenced the works of David Lynch.

She loved making them, not to sell, David Lynch deserved the all the money, the shirts were just for her.

Yet, in the haze of packing while listening to another one of his impromptu monologues, she was desperately  searching for specific items of clothing. 

She could not find them, no idea where they could be, so she choose clothes she wore at home when she was in a defeated state.

Disheveled, displaced looking depression-core would be her style this weekend, just as it had been most of the summer, most of the entire...