In my tremulous fear of what was next I couldn't help but note the details, like a crime scene before the crime. The table was brown, the sort of pattern meant to mask crumbs and grease marks and spilled malt. My sunglasses lay next to my left hand; I kept touching them obsessively, afraid I would forget them, that I would have to face the long walk back to my truck, tears streaming down my face, without the not-quite-bulletproof glass to shield me. Below us, a hundred people milled, waiting for a hundred more to step out of the gates, faces shining, recognition beaming, excitement palpable and smelling like vanilla and fried chinese. A hundred hugs below us, right now. A hundred welcomes, hand-lettered signs, suitcases taken from hands like it was a privilege to bear them for the returned, the prodigal sons. Voices raised in tones of delight, unheard sighs drifting up to the skylights as lovers reuinited.
I didn't want to look at his face, because he was already gone. A year is a long time, and with him, there was always the chance it could turn into forever. I wondered if the brown pattern on the table would hide the bloody viscera dripping off my heart as it lay there between us.
A hundred, hundred hellos. Just one goodbye.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment