l i f e
chimera
contributions
christopher@30seconds.org
She walks by as I pull up to the intersection. I know it will be awkward, it usually is with anyone I can call an ex.
Not that we're on bad terms, just no terms really.
It's hard to miss the MG's rumble and I am already committed to the turn when we make eye contact. But...because I'm eating an overly ripe peach while turning the wheel and trying to shift I can't wave like I'd like to...and by the time I recover enough to look back she's averted her eyes to the sidewalk.
I keep looking in the rear view as I pull up the street but it's no good. She isn't looking back. Why should she.
Then I think hell, she didn't wave either. Was she waiting on some action from me? Behind those dark sunglasses of hers was there a recognition at all?
Was there ever?
The distance between us grows and I cross over Market St. and turn onto Friendly Ave. We're blocks away now. I begin to relax. I notice my heart returning to a normal beat and for the first time realize it had been beating faster at all. My head was all very unclear for a block or so back. Every moment in our relationship had come rushing back to me over all these years.
The way she used to sit in class with those same glasses, sharing the back row and our little snide comments which offset the time and lecture.
That crooked smile that was so caring and at the same time so devilish. So very devilish indeed.
The ritualistic walk down Tate St. The swing in her arms. Swinging at me. Hating me toward the end. Pounding at me. The arms that grabbed calves in a fetal position on my kitchen floor. Arms that held knees tightly to a sobbing chest.
Had I done that?
Up the hill toward Westover. Getting farther away.
Away from the lips. Snarling lips that curled tight on each end. Small feverish lips that didn't so much as curse my name but ran its insecurities through circles of friends like a brush fire until there was nothing left...it had all burnt away. Things heard second and third hand. Damning things from the same lips that once smiled across that counter at work. Or gave up the debate in favor of silence and a sunset on a slate roof.
Right on Westover, a quick downshift to second, then back to third.
I throw the peach pit over the side into a bed of orange daylilies. God, they're huge this year.
You know I don't remember her eyes. I think they're black as pitch, like her hair, but I can't really say. I think I looked into them. I remember moments when I should have. The glasses weren't always on. The eyes were there with the smile and the arms and the sobs and the yelling and the hot breath and the biting teeth and the flushed checks and the nails that scraped my skin as if it were paint peeling off the side of an appliance left on the side of the road.
Down the gravel drive. I cut the motor, swing the aluminum door open and put one foot on the ground. I walk toward the house, knowing with each step I put a little more distance between us.
Knowing with each step the wave becomes less likely. Knowing next time it might not matter if I'm eating or driving or just passing on the sidewalk. I resist the urge to run back to the car, retrace the route and drive down the road honking, waving madly over the windshield.
"Don't you see what we're doing?", I'd yell, "Hey, you! Remember me? Doesn't it run through your blood? Don't things dry up in your throat too?"
I open the door to my apartment knowing too that this will pass as all things do. She might not have seen me, I think. Might not have recognized...
But I know it to be a lie, and when I slide the chain into the plate on the door, I can't help but somehow feel I've locked out more than just the world outside.
goodnight 6.8.98
