sepia93
I had never thought of my wedding day before him. But when I picture him, black tuxedo, end of the petal-strewn aisle, I can just as easily place myself in a white fluttery gown, hovering off the church floor in joy. Him, lifting the veil, connecting us with a kiss. Dancing to songs we sent each other late at night on the Internet. Holding each other aloft, floating along smooth wood and an iris breeze. Letting him see me completely, no curtain, no cover up. Me honestly, wholly, purely with just him. Only him.
I saw his camo hat float down the hall, and I rushed through the open door. I felt people watching my frantic face, but I kept pushing, kept trying to recognize him. But down the hall he went, baggy jeans, familiar hand gesturing in conversation to his friends. It could have been him. I stumbled down the concrete stairs, hating myself. I was in love with someone else, someone who treated me better than I ever imagined. And yet, my inability to close chapters of my life left me chasing after shadows in the dark.
Measure your steps, I told myself. Measure your thoughts.
I feel spent. Despondent. Searching the seas, I have no idea where the sudden sadness has derived from. All I know is that it is here. It makes my stomach feel gaping. It makes my mind feel empty. Maybe because nothing recently has worked in my favor. Forever in limbo.
I don't know if she'll ever understand how tiring ignoring someone you love can be. I'm my own doctor, taking orders I know I shouldn't, leading myself to death. Most of the time, I welcome it with ignorant and hopeless arms. Other times I think I should fight it. But I've never been fully alone before, and I don't think I have what it takes anymore.
Four months ago, her mom would have stopped at my register, we would have had a nice chat, and it would have been a break in my otherwise monotonous shift. But things have changed. Her boyfriend beams as her mom says something funny. I feel her cart push past me, wait for the hello, and instead, feel the wrath of silence. I gaze blankly at the customer's jacket in front of me. I'm nowhere near here now, floating away in that grocery cart, a wheelchair for all of my fractured feelings.
And after I told her the honest truth--everything I wanted to say but was too passive to before--she walked out the door, her braid swinging down her back. I saw him catch up to her, probably asking if she was okay, what could he do for her--it's your guess. My best friend, but all I could do was hate. Hate her, hate her for dating him, hate it all. And although I didn't mean to, it slipped out, and my voiced echoed down the hall after them. Fuck 'em, that's what I said. And I'll never be able to take it back--not even if I wanted to.
I was sick of everyone--my parents who I saw too much of, my friends who I saw too little of, the boy I gave my number to without thinking, hell, even myself. I couldn't stand sitting in my own skin. I just needed out. Out of this body, out of this town, out of this life.
I walk in the dark, past my old best friend's house, on toward the backlit streets beyond. This walk is so ingrained, so memorized, so normal. When I walk it after so many months, it feels as though I'm twelve all over again, late for dinner, rushing so as not to get scolded, eating quickly to run back down and play some more before the dark enveloped the skies. Now I don't worry about the stars. I'm old enough to walk home in the dark, old enough to know my way home, old enough to follow the stars back to where I came from.
When the night is one where it's too hot to think and too boring to be creative and you've seen your old friends in a grocery store, you check up on that old collection of cronies and see how truly fucked up they've become given enough independence and free range and alone time. Some things you'll never come back from. But they're not my problem anymore which makes me feel free and curious as to where they went wrong.
"Entropy."
"What?" I ask.
"Alden." He smiles, holding out a hand that I take. "I meant that this whole thing reminds me of entropy, the measure of molecular disorder. This whole town's gone into chaos over one murder." I can see that he instantly regrets his word choice as my stomach drops even lower than I thought it could. "I didn't mean--"
"It's fine," I say. I'm too exhausted to argue or cry or care, so I leave him in my wake, leave him regretting and feeling stupid, like everyone here.
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