The worst part was there not being a worst part. Like how did we get here? I thought maybe if we got that dog then there would have been something to feel lousy about at least.
Look at it this way. I still couldn’t sleep at night, yeah, but I actually felt like getting out of bed sometimes. Looking at her across the table at that same damn coffee house as always she looked more beautiful, more alive, like I had taken something great and scuffed it like a sneaker. The question then is one of living with how the mistakes maybe weren’t mistakes, at least on a subconscious.
She asked if I had all the papers. We talked like old friends with a bitter lack of a future, ready to blame each other for things as a scholarly exercise. Every once in awhile she got those saran-wrapped eyes and didn’t talk for a second, looked out the window or picked at her fingernails painted blueberry dark and chipping. We both knew, though, that it was all reflex.
She said she had to go to the bathroom and could I get her a refill. I watched her go, looking for something new in her step or the way her body navigated chairs, and it wasn’t until she turned the corner that I realized I didn’t know her drink.
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I always feel remiss saying how much I "liked" one of these entries when it's sad and emotional and I don't want to come off like I'm getting off on your bad experiences. How 'bout I say how effective this piece is, that it's honesty is like wiping your eye after you've been cutting peppers, and that I really, really cannot wait to read what you put out next.
ReplyDeleteThis piece is beautiful. Especially the last line... just so powerful. You are a beautiful writer.
ReplyDeleteDavid, I wouldn't worry about it; my life is pretty good now. Plus all of this is fiction anyway, even though people who know me like you do can see the parallels. The only thing I've had to cry about lately is Where the Wild Things Are (seriously don't go see that by yourself).
ReplyDeleteAdil, I do my best!