A collaborative effort in creative writing. |
|
September 2005 Collaboration Amanda of Chasing Waterfalls The One That Got Away By A.K. Osborne The car is idling across the street. I've turned off the radio, and now there is only the low rumble of the engine. I can smell the exhaust filtering in through my cracked window - amazing that I can smell anything other than the stale cigarette smoke that has filled the car. I cut the engine and roll the window all the way down. The blue-gray fog escapes, the bitter cold air floods in, and with no more heat blasting in my face, I'm shivering within minutes. I flick my cigarette out the window, watching the dance of sparks as it hits the slick, wet pavement, but I don't close the window. I'm hoping the winter air will clear my head. What am I doing here? I'm young, sophisticated, talented. I have a great job. It's Saturday, just before midnight. Why am I freezing my ass off in my car, instead of out with my friends, toasty and buzzed? Because I haven't slept. Not really, anyway, not for a month. I doze off, only to wake up from a beautiful dream, one that negates reality, only to find myself alone in my bed. I get up, pour myself a drink, weep, pour myself another, and wake up at dawn to find I passed out on the couch, my tumbler having fallen from my limp hand to the floor. I shouldn't feel this way. I shouldn't be here. These are words I've repeated to myself a thousand times over since I first started parking here in the middle of the night. I should be out, having fun… But I tried that, and it wasn't fun at all. I had gone out - or was dragged out - and I had brought men home with me, only to kick them out after the deed was done. I just could not have them sleep in my bed, not on that side, not where Gary slept. I wipe a tear away and reach for my pack of smokes. I shake one out, take it between my lips, and light it. Cancer-sticks maybe, but if this is what I'm doing with my nights, then what's the loss? I look across the street, the third window from the left, fourth floor. A light is on, and I can see them. No detail, of course, just two silhouettes, one tall and lightly-muscled, one that's all curves. They're embracing - no, dancing, right there in the bedroom. Soon, they'll tumble onto the bed, below the window ledge, and all I'll be left with is my imagination. And oh, what an imagination it is. Or maybe it's just knowledge, for I know every one of Gary's touches, his kisses… A month ago, we broke up. Or, more specifically, Gary broke up with me. We had been together for two years - the best two years of my life. I had known he was my soul mate from the moment I met him at Elaine's party. Our eyes had locked, he poured me a drink, we sat on the loveseat in the corner talking the night away as though we were the only two people in the room. There had been smiles and small touches, moments of silence when we simply looked at each other. The next day, Gary called me, having asked Elaine for my number, and we went out for dinner and dancing. Gary was the perfect gentleman; on that first date, he simply kissed me goodnight and promised to call me again. Which he did, the next day. If he dated other people during those first couple of months, he never let on. I know I didn't; what would've been the point when I had already found my perfect match? Two months of excessive dating, and Gary asked me to be exclusive. We were Gary and Pamela from then on. We were together nearly every free minute of every day. He had some of his things at my place, I had some of mine at his. It was rare that I ever slept alone. We went out together, watched movies, went for walks down by the water. We went away for weekends, spent Christmases together. Even when we were not actively engaged in one another, we were each aware of the presence of the other. It's not that we did not have arguments. We fought like any other couple that has passed the honeymoon stage. Some fights were petty, others serious. But we always managed to find one another. I start to roll up the window, but stop. They've moved out of sight. The table lamp is extinguished, and the softer glow of candles fills the room. I remember that well: the sweet smell of wax while making love. Is he playing soft music like he did with me? Is he kissing her neck now, circle her nipples with his tongue? Is he lingering, taking his time, or is he ripping her clothes off in a mad need to have her? I leave the window open and light another cigarette. I couldn't even begin to explain what went wrong. I know that I still felt the same, but it did not go beyond my notice when Gary started to pull away. He worked longer hours, claimed he needed more nights with "just the boys". I found myself sleeping alone more and more when he stayed late at the office or went out of town on business. One night, I let myself into his apartment, got into his bed in my newest lingerie, wanting to surprise him when he got home. Only, he never did. I woke up the next morning to find the apartment empty. It was when I confronted him about this that the truth came out. His face fell, his shoulders stiffened, he dug deep into his pockets the way he always did when he had bad news. "Pam, there's something I need to tell you," he said, unable to meet my eyes. "I've met someone." And just like that, my world fell apart. I barely heard him when he explained that he had met her at work, and that they hit it off instantly. I barely heard him when he swore he had never slept with her… but yes, they had gone out a few times, and he had lied to me about it. Is it cheating, even if he never touched her while he was with me? I rather think it is, and yet, here I sit in my icebox of a car, on the coldest night of the year, watching a flickering golden window. I never wanted to be this person. I never believed I was so weak. But something inside me broke the night I met Gary, something only he could mend, and without him, I'm bleeding out. And so, I'll sit here, having smoke after smoke, my teeth chattering, until the sky begins to brighten in the east. Then, tomorrow night, I'll be here, watching them, living vicariously through my replacement. Please remember to give the author feedback. |