"I'll just have a cup of coffee, please. No cream, no sugar, just black."
The soft, lazy melody of a jazz duet drifts though the coffee shop as I wait. The pair seamlessly match brass and voice, creating a smooth sensation that rests on the skin and dances in the ears. It's nothing memorable, a simple twist on an old Vaughan tune, but right now and right here, it's beautiful. I find myself humming along, trying to keep up with their rendition. Eyes shut, I bask in the warm feeling of anticipation. Today is going to be a good day.
"One coffee," chirps the barista, as she hands me a white mug filled with some exotic blend. Ethiopian, maybe. It's not like I can ever tell the difference. It could be coming from Jersey for all I know. Finding a comfy chair in the corner, I settle down amongst the hipsters and college kids. One sip tells me that the coffee's good. I guess that's all that really matters. Coffee's good, I'm good, music's good. Good, good, good.
Five thirty-five. I've got about twenty minutes before I need to pick her up. Maybe I should be late? She always jokes that I can never make it to anything on time. Tonight, I could be late on purpose. It would make for such a cute anecdote. Something to tell the kids, the grandkids. "Oh, you remember that night, honey," I would say. "Yeah, you were late, as usual," she'd quip back and we'd both laugh.
The jazz song crescendos then ends, mimicking my own giddy imagination. What was I thinking? Little mistakes lead to big mistakes, and women never like big mistakes. I've got my whole life to make little memorable moments, I don't need to force-feed them into some contrived Lifetime miniseries. But, damned if I didn't feel like I was living in some sort of sappy dream world right now.
In the background, the faux Vaughen switches to Holiday and kicks off a new song. I pull the small black box from my pocket and open it with a snap. The ring is beguiling in its simplicity. It's perfect, as she is.
I check my watch for the time. Five-forty. Nerves kick in. My thoughts race over every possible future, every imaginable outcome. I take a few more sips and leave the coffee half full on the table. An upbeat melody, some early Holiday tune, follows me as I grab the keys out of my pocket and hurry out the door.
Tonight, I will be early.
-------------------------------------
Just a bit of fiction, thought up while listening to Jazz. "I" doesn't mean me in this case.
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Saturday, August 25, 2007
The Snowstorm
I called 911. I called the moment it happened.
The operator told me that she could not send an ambulance in the storm. I pleaded, but she was resolute. They could not come because the snow was too deep, the roads closed, the storm too strong. Nothing could get through the snowstorm. What was so beautiful but minutes ago had transformed into a bulwark against rescue, a behemoth committed to our isolation. I didn't know what to do. I could hear the operator's voice, distant and hazy. She was trying to help. She was giving me directions. Maybe, had I listened, had I tried, my wife would be alive today. The voice crackled through the receiver, but I was afraid. Keep pressure on the wound, and find something to bandage her, it said. Use cloth if you need to. Do something, it commanded, anything to stop the bleeding.
Why did I freeze; why did I do nothing?
I had never seen this much blood. I had never dealt with something this bad. As I watched, she lay motionless, bleeding on the golden persian carpet. We had bought it on our honeymoon to Egypt. I remember how its delicate beauty had been transformed into a terrible mural of death. The intricate lines in the expensive foreign weaving filled with viscous red ink, a monstrous calligraphy of my wife's last breaths. Like confronting an unlearned language, I wanted everything to be clear and easy. Why couldn't the ambulance come? Why didn't anyone want to save my wife?
More importantly, why didn't I want to save her?
I didn't want to kill her, but by doing nothing I guaranteed her death. Her breathing slowed and her eyes glazed over. I backed across the room until my legs hit the chair. Collapsing into the soft leather, I cried. I cried for what seemed like hours. Snow fell upon snow, piling up around the windows as I wept. The white insulation that kept the world at bay, that killed my only love, fell silently. I was alone. Alone.
Ten years ago, I lost my only love. Ten years I have lived a lie. Ten years I should have been dead. Not her.
Now I go to join her. I slow my pace and step carefully in the snow. It falls around me, occluding the way back, hiding the way forward. The cold creeps into my lungs, freezing the very air I breathe and my chilling my blood. I fall to my knees and whisper a silent apology to my wife. Slowly, I lay down. All I see is white, drifting down to bury me in its beauty, in its quiet wrath.
I see my wife now. I see her eyes, her hair, her slight smile. I hear a soothing voice whisper through the wind. I hear forgiveness. I smile. I die.
The operator told me that she could not send an ambulance in the storm. I pleaded, but she was resolute. They could not come because the snow was too deep, the roads closed, the storm too strong. Nothing could get through the snowstorm. What was so beautiful but minutes ago had transformed into a bulwark against rescue, a behemoth committed to our isolation. I didn't know what to do. I could hear the operator's voice, distant and hazy. She was trying to help. She was giving me directions. Maybe, had I listened, had I tried, my wife would be alive today. The voice crackled through the receiver, but I was afraid. Keep pressure on the wound, and find something to bandage her, it said. Use cloth if you need to. Do something, it commanded, anything to stop the bleeding.
Why did I freeze; why did I do nothing?
I had never seen this much blood. I had never dealt with something this bad. As I watched, she lay motionless, bleeding on the golden persian carpet. We had bought it on our honeymoon to Egypt. I remember how its delicate beauty had been transformed into a terrible mural of death. The intricate lines in the expensive foreign weaving filled with viscous red ink, a monstrous calligraphy of my wife's last breaths. Like confronting an unlearned language, I wanted everything to be clear and easy. Why couldn't the ambulance come? Why didn't anyone want to save my wife?
More importantly, why didn't I want to save her?
I didn't want to kill her, but by doing nothing I guaranteed her death. Her breathing slowed and her eyes glazed over. I backed across the room until my legs hit the chair. Collapsing into the soft leather, I cried. I cried for what seemed like hours. Snow fell upon snow, piling up around the windows as I wept. The white insulation that kept the world at bay, that killed my only love, fell silently. I was alone. Alone.
Ten years ago, I lost my only love. Ten years I have lived a lie. Ten years I should have been dead. Not her.
Now I go to join her. I slow my pace and step carefully in the snow. It falls around me, occluding the way back, hiding the way forward. The cold creeps into my lungs, freezing the very air I breathe and my chilling my blood. I fall to my knees and whisper a silent apology to my wife. Slowly, I lay down. All I see is white, drifting down to bury me in its beauty, in its quiet wrath.
I see my wife now. I see her eyes, her hair, her slight smile. I hear a soothing voice whisper through the wind. I hear forgiveness. I smile. I die.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The Clock
The clock strikes two.
Ding...
Ding...
Two rings of a tiny clockwork bell, its chime echoing only slightly in the barren hall. In fifteen minutes the clock will chime once, in thirty, twice. Always a constant, always there to remind you that time is flowing, never stopping. A stallwart of temporal fortitude, reliable and impersonal.
Tick. Tock.
It would never cheat. It would never fight. It would never leave. It would never take the dog. It would never take the records. It would never take the goddamn Christmas tree, an empty space now filled by a few lights on the floor. They lay like discarded clothes, waiting for somebody to put them back on. Waiting in vain.
Tick. Tock.
There is a single present left. Laying amounst the fallen lights and abandoned ornaments, its silver paper reflects the multicolored bulbs like a prism. On its embossed name cover reads a simple note, "With love."
Five minutes.
Images of fire and loss pass through the glass emptiness of a man's eyes. No tears. Nothing left to cry over. The fear, the rage, the moment, they had all passed in the night. Now there is an empty well. Emotions drained and used, leaving only regret, only thirst.
Ten minutes.
Snow and cold air drift in through a broken window. By the morning, there will be a small pile of snow on the floor. Outside, three stories down, there will be a frame hidden in white. Between its wooden arms there will be a picture of happiness. A picture false, but warm. A picture of the past.
Fifteen minutes.
The pendulum reflects a last remorseful glance. A hand opens the front door. A moment's pause, and then, gone. All that is left is time, moving forward, never backward.
Ding...
Ding...
Two rings of a tiny clockwork bell, its chime echoing only slightly in the barren hall. In fifteen minutes the clock will chime once, in thirty, twice. Always a constant, always there to remind you that time is flowing, never stopping. A stallwart of temporal fortitude, reliable and impersonal.
Tick. Tock.
It would never cheat. It would never fight. It would never leave. It would never take the dog. It would never take the records. It would never take the goddamn Christmas tree, an empty space now filled by a few lights on the floor. They lay like discarded clothes, waiting for somebody to put them back on. Waiting in vain.
Tick. Tock.
There is a single present left. Laying amounst the fallen lights and abandoned ornaments, its silver paper reflects the multicolored bulbs like a prism. On its embossed name cover reads a simple note, "With love."
Five minutes.
Images of fire and loss pass through the glass emptiness of a man's eyes. No tears. Nothing left to cry over. The fear, the rage, the moment, they had all passed in the night. Now there is an empty well. Emotions drained and used, leaving only regret, only thirst.
Ten minutes.
Snow and cold air drift in through a broken window. By the morning, there will be a small pile of snow on the floor. Outside, three stories down, there will be a frame hidden in white. Between its wooden arms there will be a picture of happiness. A picture false, but warm. A picture of the past.
Fifteen minutes.
The pendulum reflects a last remorseful glance. A hand opens the front door. A moment's pause, and then, gone. All that is left is time, moving forward, never backward.
Monday, August 20, 2007
My Pillow
Exhausted, I accept her gentle embrace.
With her unwrinkled skin,
She caresses my face, soft and expectant,
Like a zephyr on a sultry day.
She has been waiting for me,
Just as I have been waiting for her.
The long, tiring day seems a distant memory while I am in her clutches.
Soon she pulls me in close,
Enveloping me in her warm hug.
I breath in her modest, yet refreshing scent
And relish in the comfort that comes with it.
Soon, my world will be filled with the dispassionate aroma of sleep,
But first,
I must rest my weary head and release my demons.
She begins my night simply,
With a compassionate cuddle and a forgiving cradle.
Where I go from there is unknown,
But there is no better start than in her hands.
With her unwrinkled skin,
She caresses my face, soft and expectant,
Like a zephyr on a sultry day.
She has been waiting for me,
Just as I have been waiting for her.
The long, tiring day seems a distant memory while I am in her clutches.
Soon she pulls me in close,
Enveloping me in her warm hug.
I breath in her modest, yet refreshing scent
And relish in the comfort that comes with it.
Soon, my world will be filled with the dispassionate aroma of sleep,
But first,
I must rest my weary head and release my demons.
She begins my night simply,
With a compassionate cuddle and a forgiving cradle.
Where I go from there is unknown,
But there is no better start than in her hands.
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