Second Person
You rouse from another long night of dreams. These first few waking moments, before your mind asserts itself, will be the only peaceful moments you have today. You look to notice the pillow beside you — unoccupied, the way it has been for the last three months, the way it will surely continue to be. The sight of it, still pitted in the middle, the remnants of the sugary perfume still in the fabric, brings the memory of her searing into your heart.
You effect every little act — the tying of your shoes, the turning of the key in the car door — as if the whole world just might be watching. Your words are modest, your steps are lingering. You desperately hope for some serendipity today, perhaps to find some cosmic meaning in your misfortune that might make it just a little easier to cope. Though you know too well that hope itself is the only relief you will likely happen upon.
At the stoplight, a cute girl in the car beside you glances at you casually. Maybe a trifling thing to any other man, but this simple glance lays hold of you, the way that all female attention lately has. You quail with diffidence and quickly turn your head the other way, ignoring the crazy questions a broken heart asks itself about complete strangers like her. Those questions don't really matter. Neither do the answers.
You feel prepared enough when you arrive at the cemetery. One day you will let your lover go, cast off the pain, tuck the fond memories away and move on with your life, but today you need her. You hope she will be waiting for you at the grave site, recalled to life; you hope it was all a mistake, that she had to go away for a bit, but she's back now and ready to go home. The hope absorbs you. You need to indulge it, if only for one more day.
A tap on your shoulder causes little alarm. It's the girl you saw at the stoplight. She stands close to you, her eyes radiating sympathy; her bearing graceful, honest. Somehow you're not surprised to see her, somehow you don't mind her company at all. You remain poised, gazing back at her with little tears in your eyes. You have questions, but you don't need to ask them: the answers don't really matter. No need to tell her you've been wounded, no need to share your cautionary tale. She can already see all of that. You just look at her in this moment, openly, relinquished of the need to be anything other than you.
She smiles at you bashfully and says, "I love your car."
You effect every little act — the tying of your shoes, the turning of the key in the car door — as if the whole world just might be watching. Your words are modest, your steps are lingering. You desperately hope for some serendipity today, perhaps to find some cosmic meaning in your misfortune that might make it just a little easier to cope. Though you know too well that hope itself is the only relief you will likely happen upon.
At the stoplight, a cute girl in the car beside you glances at you casually. Maybe a trifling thing to any other man, but this simple glance lays hold of you, the way that all female attention lately has. You quail with diffidence and quickly turn your head the other way, ignoring the crazy questions a broken heart asks itself about complete strangers like her. Those questions don't really matter. Neither do the answers.
You feel prepared enough when you arrive at the cemetery. One day you will let your lover go, cast off the pain, tuck the fond memories away and move on with your life, but today you need her. You hope she will be waiting for you at the grave site, recalled to life; you hope it was all a mistake, that she had to go away for a bit, but she's back now and ready to go home. The hope absorbs you. You need to indulge it, if only for one more day.
A tap on your shoulder causes little alarm. It's the girl you saw at the stoplight. She stands close to you, her eyes radiating sympathy; her bearing graceful, honest. Somehow you're not surprised to see her, somehow you don't mind her company at all. You remain poised, gazing back at her with little tears in your eyes. You have questions, but you don't need to ask them: the answers don't really matter. No need to tell her you've been wounded, no need to share your cautionary tale. She can already see all of that. You just look at her in this moment, openly, relinquished of the need to be anything other than you.
She smiles at you bashfully and says, "I love your car."
posted by Row of Streetlights at 8:38 PM
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