January 27, 2014
Tears stream down her face
in the middle of the crowded bar, she swipes at the liquid, careful not to
smudge the mascara. This is my third stop of the night, I am accompanied by a
friend who doesn’t get out much and the “I’ve had enough” switch is clearly
turned “OFF” or carefully ignored, put into the covered, taped-shut box and
shoved into the dark recesses under the bed. “I stood on the 10th Street Bridge,” she
continued. The screaming despair, longing, abandonment and grandiose suffering,
not knowing what to do with her runaway feelings had me lean into her body, personal space, and heart. The
band continued to play, badly at that, undeniably undanceable music, members
unaware of the unfolding, untidy story. I nodded in utter concern for the then
18 year old, who stood on the precipice of messy truth. The world was not going
her way, nothing like she had decided it would, forevermore.
“Let’s go downtown!” clamor
her slushy lips. I convince her I have to go home, and relieve the dog. She
agrees and I whip up some saga of needing food in my sloshing belly and soon,
serve rice and steamed veggies after we gobble bread and cheese, enough for a
small village.
It takes more than a few
minutes to boot up my computer since she obsessively needs to search for an old
flame on Facebook, to send him an urgent message. Won’t life be so much better
with him in it? I cannot fathom an answer. The effort of impatience is too
much, so she brushes her teeth, slides into bed, promising to get up early to
start another day of adventure together.
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