[Short Story] Working Title: You

"Never close your lips to whom you have opened your heart."
~Charles Dickens.

I sit unaccompanied in this tiny café sipping on lukewarm sludge ostentatiously pawned off as coffee. Avoiding my purpose for being awake at this early hour, I observe the buzz of conversation surrounding me. There are scuttlebutts behind me gushing over the latest small town drama in animated delight, the surly old men in the corner conferring about the effects of pesticides on this year's crop, and the twenty-something newlyweds to my left bickering over each other's dislike for their respective in-laws.

The weary waitress, who appears to have seen too much of the worlds' ugliness, is annoyed with me. I am conscious of her glare from across the room that makes the soft hair on the back of my neck stand erect. She has long since ignored my empty water glass and only refills my stained cup upon request. I know she wishes me to depart so she can clear my existence from the table. Understandably so, but I am not ready to be cleared away yet.

After all, there is a wretched deadline to oblige, and only your name scrawled on the page before me. Damn the mockery of writer's block mere days before the editors' final call for submissions. Perhaps I ought to grant the server's unspoken but obvious appeal and spend the day neglecting the narrative I have failed to compose. Alas, the unfortunate woman has refreshed my cup and I would hate to waste such a rancid brew, so I remain.

I look out the large plate-glass windows before me watching as the clouds purge their burden on this minuscule metropolis. Like me, I know you appreciate the solitude of the rain, and I cannot help wondering if, wherever you are at this moment, you are indulging in the downpour as well. Much like the rain-kissed day we watched the sky shed tears for all we were not saying.

I had been anxiously awaiting your arrival that morning, preoccupied with the flood of undeclared sentiment that began spilling into my consciousness since we had spoken last, memories of that nerve-wracking admission of interest consuming me. I was dumbfounded. I could not believe that someone so perfect, in my estimation, would like someone like me.

I was terrified that you would fail to show or that you would vanish, like a dream, when I answered your knock at the door. I would be the fool, waking alone, permeating in my own sweat as if you were a fantasy not truly meant for me to behold. Yet, there you were, beautiful and radiant, ready to explore the day together.

The afternoon showers provided an intimacy that ensnared us into a whirlwind of inexhaustible dialog. Roaming through town with no particular destination in mind, the hours passed as we discovered a multitude of similarities in our lives and interests. We each had our own anecdotes and tidbits from our personal histories to tell. As the day wore on it became increasingly simple to open up because, more often than not, you knew where I was coming from.

By the conclusion of the evening, I was captivated, awestruck by your sincerity and seduced by your charismatic wit. Selfishly, I wanted to retain the spell cast on our moment. Such an infinitely small occurrence, that began so long ago over hours of coffee and conversation. Yet, all good things must draw to a close. Is that not how the saying goes?

In vivid dreamlike recollection, I recall plunging into the translucent, jade-tinted depths of your eyes losing myself in the tide, seconds before attempting to flee the mounting passion you stir within me. If I had not said my goodnight while walking backwards, would I not have seen you following? Oh, the sweet rapture of your lips against mine during that first earth shattering, breathe taking, mind-blowing kiss. The swell of excitement that consumed me was intense, beginning in my chest and exploding like fireworks throughout my entire being.

With teeth tightly clinched, the waitress interrupts my daydream, filling my mug. I care not. I fall into myself again, philosophizing now, the paradox of our meeting. In the random lottery that is existence how is it that you found me, enhancing my life with your beauty and inspiring presence? How unlikely it is that we would meet in such an arbitrary location. Here, in this awkward place we both aspire to escape rather than the rocky mountain backdrop from whence we both came?

The complexities of life confound me at times. However, I have learned over the years, not to question the Powers That Be too extensively, for fear I may lose something valuable in doing so. Laid to rest are my doubts of the existence of Divinity, for nothing short of brilliance created all that has become you. I have seen the gates of Heaven by drifting head over feet into love with you. It both liberates me and frightens me beyond reason. Yet, I am still free falling and inexplicably content in doing so.

It is you and all your quirks you loath, yet I adore. Like the way you look in the morning; all disheveled and bitter, wanting just one more hour of sleep. The sweet way you explain scents to me, since I am not capable of enjoying them myself. The enchantment of your voice as you read to me and how inexplicably endearing your reaction is when something excites you. I am enamored with the strength and courage you exude when you believe in your convictions. Your articulate vocabulary and intelligence, sharp as a brand new blade, is stimulating. When you smile you light up everything around you, including me. It is, in fact, the sum of your whole being that entices me into child-like fantasies of forever.

The waitress shuffles by, nearly dumping a tray atop me, as she makes a delivery to a nearby table. She will most certainly dislike my presence more now. To her, I am in the way, a parasite sucking up too much air and space, eating a hole in her pocket by remaining in her section far too long. I've been there, as a server, many years ago. Still, I smile kindly, requesting a glass of ice water as she passes. She rolls her dirt-colored eyes but returns with a warm glass. I watch the few scattered cubes melt before swallowing half of the liquid.

So here we are, not so far into the future and I find your presence as essential as the air I breathe. When I am not with you I spend those seconds wishing that we were together. You make me painstakingly aware of so much. Even now, when the reality that is life, the twisted paranoia of too many lessons learned and too many to be unlearned, is rearing its ugly head. We clash in a battle of words, in which you win and I falter. You wanted more of me than I knew how to provide. I wanted more of your time than you had to offer.

As you gave your reasoning, you spoke to me of things no one has ever noticed. If your words hold truth, you would be the first to want me for me, without motive or intent. You told me of how I have pushed you away. I said yes. I left out that I was not the only one pushing.

You say you do not want to fight me for me. I say I do not want to fight everyone else for you, including you, and I try in vain to explain. However, I know not how to tell you what I have kept to myself, fearing your defenses will take you from me. Instead, I concede and pray for reconciliation.

Long ago, I became tired of chasing invisible ghosts, one I will never be and another that I shall never be again. I detested myself for loathing myself. As we found one another, I had already begun to awaken to things I had forgotten were present within me. I was becoming comfortable with myself. Your interest further reminded me of the priceless possessions you now believe I cannot see.

Yet, here I am, in this filthy diner, with its cranky service, hell-bent on putting into words the embodiment of something as raw and powerful as all that has transpired between us. Your understanding and ceaseless support unlocked the vault that was stashing the confidence necessary to accomplish a dream I had almost given up.
You reminded me to fight and now I stand on the brink of an edge struggling with the emptiness of a life lived without you. I know we'd both survive but I want to do more than survive. I would rather be alive with you. All that we have in common, all the ideas we share and the love we possess, can it not be enough? Will we still pass like two ships in the night unaware that the other is reaching out? Can the damage be undone?

My thoughts once again dwell in the safety of philosophy where the agony of all this drama takes a back seat to logic. Do not the hands of the clock tick the seconds into minutes that drift into hours that scroll into days and so on, towards some uncertain yet inevitable phenomenon? Could this not be one of the ultimate few purposes? What I have seen as the deliverance of an empowering, nurturing devotion to endure and outlast the delicacy of life itself?

On the other hand, perhaps this is merely the optimistic rambling of one who is foolishly immature and hopeless in matters such as this. I am like a little girl that is still looking for the storybook fantasy of a fairy-tale happily-ever-after. I want everything because I want it with you.

Sunlight illuminates the small diner. Gone is the comfort of the falling rain. The scuttlebutts have been replaced with quarrelsome accountants, the old men with high school sweethearts and a solitary elderly woman where the newlyweds once sat. I study the handsome, hard lines of her face and the visible scars of aging. I want to buy her breakfast and listen to her story, to know how to get from where I am to where she is now. However, I do not dare disturb her solitude. I use my imagination instead.

Behind closed lids, I conjure the image of a woman graced with intangible wisdom and candor. She has lived a superior, lengthy life, full of radiance and happiness. She has danced stark naked in the drizzling rain, traveled through the jungles in Australia and baked cookies with her grandchildren. She has loved, lost and received love. She remains content in her age.

I look up finding her eyes gazing into my own and smile, embarrassed for reasons I cannot explain. I squeak out a barely audible 'good morning'. Grinning she returns the greeting. In her dark glassy eyes, I see my own reflection. Startled by the surge of anxiety at the reassurance I ascertain in knowing I will be there someday, my stomach muscles clinch inside me. I jump when I realize she's speaking, interrupting my thoughts.

"That's the trouble with you young folks these days. You don't talk. You're all too busy getting about and doing your own things to listen; too cooped up to communicate beyond your cell-phones and fast-paced lives. My Harold, now that man-why…he never shut up. Damn near drove me nuts with his yammering. Married forty-five years and the only peace I got was the day we laid him to rest."

I smile. "Sometimes it's hard to find the words…the right ones anyway"

"The truth is all that matters." She chides.

I think on that for a moment. She speaks of truth as if there is some underlying thing I do not see causing the rift, I cannot seem to mend. Of course, she knows nothing of you or me. However, I take it there as I want it to be too soon for me to believe I have burned the bridge I need to get to where you are. Was it in fact, my inability to see the truth of the matter that has pulled me from you?

"The truth is not so easily explained," I argue.

"That's because you don't get it. You kids don't listen. You got eyes and ears but you fail to use them. The facts could be there nippin' at ya like Jack Frost in January but you'd never know cause you don't see it.

I choose my words carefully before responding. "Well, there are at least two sides to every story. Both sides contain truths the other side doesn't. Neither story is the entire truth but each story contains truth."

She laughs. "That's the little stuff. Little stuff has many sides. Serious stuff has one truth larger than the rest. That's where it matters. Dress it up however you want but truth is truth and lies are lies. The fact remains; you can't tell either one if you don't talk in the first place. You know, my Harold may have driven me mad all these years, runnin' his damn fool mouth but at least I didn't have to question what he was thinking. There was nothing secretive about him. If he wanted or needed something, he said so. If something was on his mind, he talked about it; he didn't know any other way."

I can't help but smile. "That sounds nice…it must be difficult not having your husband to talk with after all these years…"

"Nah," she says, "I may be a crazy 'ole lady," and at this she lowered her head and her voice below the chaos around us, "but I'll be damned if that man don't still talk my ear off."

She shrugs, "Course, no one else can hear him but, after forty-five years together…when you know someone so well that you can hear them when they're gone…that's when you know…", her voice trails, almost cracking under the strain of her admonition.

A waiter sets her order down. I watch as the woman saturates first one half of a biscuit then the other with butter before slathering on the dark, berry flavored jam. Watching the meticulous nature of her preparation, I mull over her words allowing the wisdom of her insight to sink in.

Shaken, I look down at the pages before me, realizing that I have been seducing our story into print for several hours. The café is filling with its familiar lunch crowd. I think of you and I and the aged woman's story. Even the sweethearts in the corner flattering each other over a slice of key lime seem to be taunting me.
My head aches with emotions that devour me. I know my heart has moved faster than my brain, in spite of my resolve to maintain logic over the impetus of my emotions. I could not bare the notion of losing you to my own narcissistic impatience; it was for this reason that I wanted to slowly deconstruct the walls that separate us. Instead, I have lost you to my learned insecurity, fear and ignorance.

Last night, looking into your eyes, I watched your heart break and knew I was responsible. I wanted to break into tears right then but like a fool, I held it in. I remember, as a child, being scolded for weeping by my surrounding authority figures. It would irritate all of them. "I haven't even touched you, ya big baby." They would croon, ignorant to the notion that their words stung more than their fists ever could. Camouflaging emotion in wit and sarcasm became second nature to me. It wasn't until years later that I would begin to understand what this could do to a person who wants to share but finds it almost impossible to remember how.

Like the first time I slept over; how much I enjoyed curling up with you tucked away in my arms. I remembered lying in the park, on that beautiful quilt you made by hand, reading. I see the two of us sprawled on your bed each with pen in hand, inscribing our thoughts into journals. How strangely comfortable that was. I would feel your eyes on me, and turn to watch you when you went back to your page.

I thought about your eyes. Those ever-expressive green orbs with specks of gold. How bright the glow of them and how blind I had been to that. My thoughts turn to the look of hurt that saddens me and the look that beams with happiness . Why had I not seen it before? Why had it taken this long to sink in?

I want to find you and share this tale; give to you the honesty I once promised and selfishly failed to keep. I wish to bestow upon you the only gift I can give which is the only one you claim to want; me. I want to fight away all of your fears and doubts. I crave talking with you, as we have not done in so long, like we did that morning. I yearn to find that again.

I toss a dingy twenty-dollar bill on the table for my stale coffee, hoping the server forgives my intrusion into her morning. Gathering my belongings, I head for the door, pausing at the register to pay for the elderly woman's breakfast as reimbursement for the simple knowledge she did not have to share.

I once found salvation and reassurance in your company; now I stumble blindly in a chilling awkwardness, born on my part from not knowing what to say or do. Your voice drips with contempt now and I am struggling with the strength it takes to endure it so we can move beyond its purpose. I look for answers to questions I do not know, sensing the absence of an explanation equally as relevant as what you have already said. Mostly, I want to find where the dialog died.

Outside, the winds rustle the leaves in the surrounding trees. The story I sat down to pen remains unfinished, or does it? Perhaps I am in the middle of a chapter with you. Maybe we are characters in a narrative not our own and we are modest participants in a plot unfolding around us. On the other hand, the pentacle of our relationship may well have made it's journey passed.

The only thing I know as I run off to find you is that, if given the chance, I want our story to be as beautiful as the one about the old woman sitting alone in a diner listening to the voice of her lover long after the voice has ceased.

"But let there be spaces in your togetherness, and let the winds of heaven dance between you. Love one another, but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of life can contain your hearts. And stand together yet not too near together; for the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow." ~Kahlil Gibran.

K.M.T.