"There's always a MOMENT."

Required (well, suggested) reading for tonight's post: Closer, Patrick Marber*

Two hours after I finished reading the play, I watched the Sox trail the Yankees, 6-1 in the bottom of the sixth. With two outs, my eyes widened and moved to the vase of flowers across the living room.

Was that why I got it?

I remembered lying on the grass in July, staring at the clouds while I listened to the argument in the distance. I winced as her voice rose and his words became a series of unfinished sentences. James, there for my moral support, squeezed my hand as she started to shout.

I was tired of it. I didn't want to be part of it anymore, but I didn't feel like there was a way to get out of it. The whole distorted mess of confusion had fused together into an unyielding series of conflicts. It was a drama in which we found ourselves with leading roles.

But we liked it. We needed to feel important. And much as I tried to ignore this at the time, I realize now that I really could have broken away from it. I chose not to, instead plunging in more deeply. And as her voice became more shrill, there was a small part of me that actually felt good about it. She was scared of me and what I could do. I had gotten to her and screwed things up, just as she had ruined it all for me before.

We all claimed to be friends. We were a group of smartass college kids home for summer in a small town and we were all brilliantly dysfunctional as a gang. But the truth was that we hated each other. Each of us wanted to hurt everyone else more than they hurt us. It's the only explanation for why it continued as long as it did - two summers and nearly three semesters of distance-dulled torment.

She and I each wanted to use his affections to hurt the other and win the competition. He wanted us to hate each other because of him. The brothers just wanted to pick sides and cheer us on. And she and I both wanted him to pay for it all.

It was the only time I have ever felt I had a rival - the only time I competed for the affections of a guy. And it wasn't worth it in the least.

We all lost. I spent nights in front of my computer, crying at the vicious messages sent to me from unknown sources - and I missed out on months getting to know the bystander who eventually became my closest friend. She went off into a series of troubles, only some of which, I think, stemmed from this particular chaos. He lost two years and a lot of trust from a relationship with the woman he'd eventually marry.

Once I dug my way out of it, I realized I was fine. I hadn't cared about any of the particular players after all. They were just there the same time I was - and I'd been naive in thinking we were well-intentioned.

But I still tensed up when my flatmate and I ran into her last fall. She was behind us as we walked downtown, and she called out my friend by name. I froze when I heard the voice; her eyes were similarly wide and frightened as we engaged in polite, slightly strangled conversation. When the silence arrived, she scurried off, looking back once as she turned the corner.

I know I learned from it, but I, like everyone else involved, wound up with scars. I hate to think about it. I've taken the lessons learned and tried to ignore the context in which they came. But I wonder if that's why I have such a hard time trusting; why I build these stupid walls.

And I wonder if that's why I'm wondering now if I was an 18-year-old Anna or Alice. And hoping that I'm just being too hard on myself; that I was actually neither.

*I should note that I've not seen the film version. Although that will likely change tomorrow. It's really a brilliant, mindfuck kind of play that I highly recommend reading. But I don't see how Natalie Portman could really nail the Alice role. Sorry, I like her, but it's true.