Note to the readers: This is a short story that is a part of a collection I've been working on. The stories aren't related, but they do follow similar themes. Feel free to leave some feedback on the story.
The alarm clock’s buzz plays in my head, a lot like a funeral march. I am already awake when I hear it. And yet, I am motionless. Perhaps I should explain.
Today is not the greatest of days. It is the kind of morning you hesitantly roll over to, blinking your eyes, fighting all nerves, until you collect yourself, realizing that you just have to face it. There are no eager smiles. No jumping out of bed to happily greet this one. The rising is always slow, accompanied by 12 different thoughts that flood your mind, on why you should just stay in bed.
I’ve always hated these fucking mornings.
Most mornings, I wake up chipper. I smile more times than I know is necessary. I am weightless, eager, and move a lot like the good parts of the best songs. But today, I sag in this space like a frown. I move my arms like an accident victim, checking to see if I have intact limbs. My body cowers into the comfort of the mattress, as I try to recollect the events of the night before, already aware that these memories are most likely boring, but I trace them because I really want to stall. I don’t want to get up yet.
The rising view from my king sized bed is a spectacular one, on most accounts. The grand space that makes up my bedroom is filled with mahogany dressers, decorative lamps, and a collection of the treasures my life has granted me. The best parts adorn the walls. Beautiful paintings, by artists you’ve never even heard of, hang from each of the large white walls. They are my joy, much more than the replica Van Gogh’s and Monet’s that fill the studio downstairs. Because these are the best works of the best unknowns, a group I recently was a part of.
You see, I am an artist. I’ve been painting and sculpting since I was nine years old. There’s a passion I find in colors that I have never found in other things. For most of my life, my parents encouraged me, buying me supplies and sending me to art camps. They assumed it was some enrichment hobby. Their encouragement ended abruptly when I dropped out of college, barely a semester in.
"You’re too intelligent!” my mother protested, speaking on the straight A’s I’d made since the second grade, “You could be a doctor or lawyer easily. Why must you waste yourself on this art thing?”
Mothers are wonderful creatures. They put their feet in their mouths with the sincerest of loves. My father tried to sneak his support, but a husband is only as assertive as his wife will allow him to be. So naturally, without their blessings, I gravitated away from home. I spent an awesome summer abroad, in Kyoto, studying the life and paintings of Sotatsu. Eventually, as nearly all artists do, I found my way to New York City. It was there that my passion thrived, and I finally gained some attention.
Six years later, and the rest is history. I’m a 27 year old “phenomenon” who’s featured works in galleries from New York to Milan. My agent, Michael, assures me that the next stop is the Louvre. I’ll always appreciate his confidence in me. But as I rise from my bed slowly, letting the silk sheets slink off of me, I don’t feel the least bit phenomenal. In fact, all I feel is numb.
You see, today my lover is leaving me. We’ve known this day would come for nearly the entire two years we’ve spent together. But knowing means very little, especially when it comes to goodbye. So this explains the extra gravity that now seems to tug within my chest. I try to pretend I don’t notice it as I move towards the bathroom. But it’s there, just as much as all the happy memories of Sara and me, now curling within my depths, this giant wad I’ll never lose.
Sara.
Even as I think her name, I can feel my lips forming a smile. Some people create such good sensations within you that words aren’t enough to explain. She has me hooked. And I imagine I have her as well, though it will never be enough to keep her. I remember the very first time I saw her. It was a book release party in Los Angeles, for a writer acquaintance whose name I forget. One of those extravagant affairs that you only attend because of who might potentially be there. Plus, there’s always an open bar, and those caterers who you have to be super important just to get a call back. The party was boring, the people were boring, and the bar was empty far too early in the night. I remember preparing to leave, when I saw this vision, outside on the balcony.
Pure magnetism.
That’s the best way to describe what was happening inside me, which led me to her. Suddenly, I’m clenching my coat, standing out on a balcony that held one of the best views of LA I’d ever seen. And an angel was standing next to me.
Sara has that look. I don’t need to go any further. Think of everything that’s ever been fantasized about in a woman and you would find it, in her.
“I can feel you staring at me.”
These were her first words, but gawking would have been more accurate. I knew it wasn’t the proper thing to do, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
“I’m Sara.” she said, laughing gently as she lowered her champagne glass to extend her free hand.
I remember how I nearly gasped, as I imagined that hand tracing every inch of me.
From there, it was explosive. We had one of those love affairs people write novels about, so new and sudden, fantastic and free. I couldn’t believe it at first, but by month six I was fully invested. Now, as I’m moving towards the bathroom door, still uncertain about making this day real, I glance over at the largest dresser, a deep brown beauty made from the finest wood, part of a set I had imported from India. I am well aware of what’s in the top drawer, tucked beneath some unimportant letters, still inside its bag. I bought the ring after that sixth month, when a certainty flooded over me. Sara had stayed until morning, for the first time, and I knew I always wanted it to be that way.
This is silly. I told myself that, dozens of times, as I stood outside the Manhattan jeweler. I was back in New York, for a viewing at the MoMA, but purchasing it was the only thing on my mind.
You barely even know her. Imagine what people will say.
By people, I really meant my mother, who I was certain would come up with millions of excuses why Sara and I shouldn’t be together. The obvious ones would sting the most.
My father already knew. My father always already knew. Unlike my mother, he had started coming to my shows, and had flown out to Seattle for a feature I did. This was about a month after I’d bought the ring, still trying to find the courage to present it to her. He had watched the way Sara and I embraced, paid close attention to the extra respect she’d given him during their brief introduction. She had a seminar to prepare for, but always tried her best to show me support. My love for her tripled thanks to this.
“This Sara is very special to you. Right?”
I remember staring into my father’s eyes, looking for some type of admonishment. I expected him to try and talk me out of it. To look at me with some kind of deep disappointment. All I got was a grin. It was the sort of grin that only comes from having been there, head over heels and falling faster. My father is a thoughtful man, quiet and reserved nearly all the time. My mother is a downpour of gasoline on a field lit with millions of candles. There has to be a little insanity in such a pairing. That, plus a whole lot of love.
“Listen, kiddo,” my father said, placing his hand on my shoulder gently, “life is about doing what makes you happy. If this is it, I say go for it.”
There’s no limit to how much I love that man.
But, obviously, I never went for it. My insides could never garner such strength. Sara’s presence alone makes me weak. My love for her only escalates it. Besides, from the very beginning, this thing we have has been complicated, at best.
I finally walk into the bathroom, unable to procrastinate any longer. I have accepted this empty tragedy called fate, so stalling won’t do any good. I peer into the mirror. I have been told by many that I am very attractive, sexy even. Suitors have gone out of their way to be near me, some even to stalker-like means. But looking at my reflection, this morning I see average, if that. I run the water to the shower in silence, though good days would find me humming a song. As I step beneath the pleasantly hot water, my mind thinks of moving on.
I fear that I’ll have to sell this place, the one great accomplishment that has come with my sudden fame. But there are too many ghosts of Sara that are here. Even as I shower, I feel her. We’ve fucked in this shower, had sex in this shower, and even made love against these very tiles. Tucked along the staircase, riding the banisters, are the intimate laughs that me and her have shared. I’ll probably never go back into the kitchen. We had such good times in that kitchen…..
Before Sara decided on teaching for a living, she was determined to be a master chef. I no longer eat at 5-star restaurants, out of fear that the main course will bring me to tears.
I step from the shower, still drenched in emotions, and hurry to get dressed. Downstairs, in my living room, which was decorated by one of Paris’ top designers, I stare at the antique clock, the hour hand mocking me. I have just enough time to get to the airport before….
I rush out the door, unable to finish the thought.
Outside, the air is humid, and I am thankful I dressed appropriately. I move to the car parked in my driveway, and climb in, ready for my demise. Most of my friends hate my car. I imagine it’s because, in our social circle, where success and wealth are commonplace, it really doesn’t fit in. ’94 Ford Mustang Cobra. Candy apple red. It’s a speed demon’s car. A lover of machinery’s car. The kind of car that teenage boys fall in love with. I chose it because of my grandfather, who loved me unconditionally and used to drive a ’74 model. When I couldn’t find one of those, I settled for the one I could find. My car made Sara smile the very first time she saw it. Said that it suited me.
Thinking of this makes me punch the gas.
I move through the streets of what’s become my home not really thinking about driving. My mind jumps from past moment to past moment like one of those trapeze artists flipping towards the next swing. I think of the hand painted card Sara gave me, on the first of my birthdays that we spent together. Although she’s not artistically inclined, I told her it was beautiful, and meant it. There are vacations, kisses, fights and making up, and other wrenching memories that pour through my mind. I have my father’s deep brown eyes, and I can still feel how Sara’s greens would leap into them. It was like she could always see into me.
“You love me, don’t you?”
She’d asked me this once, after an enchanting evening out at an opera in Philadelphia. I was in town to accept an award and she was doing a guess lecture at Drexel. It caught me by surprise.
“Can’t you tell?”
It was all I could manage. Followed, of course, by her infectious laugh.
That laugh rings through my ears as I pull through the intersection, my light still solidly red. The woman in the crosswalk screams. I hit the brakes hard, clearly shaken, and manage to stop a few feet from disaster. Her eyes look out at mine, and I can see the visions of death that dance within. And yet, she smiles slightly, obviously also having a bad day.
After avoiding a vehicular manslaughter charge, I arrive at the airport without further incident. My hands tremble as I park the car, though this has little to do with the accident I avoided. The moment is finally upon us. I stare at myself in the rear-view mirror, not really sure what I’m checking for.
This’ll be the last time she sees you. You might as well make it good.
When I’m prepared, I open the door. It makes a low moaning sound that somehow reminds me of the faucet at this cheap motel Sara and I stayed at while in Toronto, her hometown. We laughed that night something fierce, thinking of idiotic ways to describe the noise. But that was the nature of our love. So happy, it was idiotic. We clung to the corners tightly of something we had always known we’d lose.
I walk into the main terminal of the airport, moving as quickly as my anxious legs will take me, over to the information desk. I keep hoping to see the word ‘canceled’, but the flight to Chicago is right on time. A sigh releases from my chest that feels like I’ve held it there for at least a year. I study the map near the desk hurriedly, not wanting to lose more time.
As I walk, I think my heart’s thoughts.
She’s better off without you.
Two young children, playing with a blue balloon, run past me, smiling giddily.
Why didn’t you give her the ring?
One of the airport custodians stands just in front of me, next to a Wet Floor sign, mopping vigorously. There are headphones in his ears, but I still stop to get his attention.
“Yes?” he asks me, impatiently. I can hear the blare of some 80s rock tune.
“Gate 12 is right up this way, correct?”
He points one finger half-heartedly. His other hand cradles the mop with care. A pain rips through my stomach as I am reminded of the way that Sara held me.
“Keep going that way until you reach the open space. Turn left, and you shouldn’t miss it.”
Even as I listen to his answer, I know it is a play for time. He stares at me for a few seconds more, even eventually offering a smile, before disappearing back behind his music’s guitars. As I walk forward, I feel a lot like those strings, stroked by the plectrum of fate. I don’t like its violent rendering, but this is a song that must be played. In a moment that feels like forever, but not nearly long enough, I am standing before gate 12. I can hear them announcing the boarding of Flight 117, to Chicago. I scan the passengers gathered with reckless abandon.
Sara.
She’s walking towards me, even more beautiful than ever. On her face, there is the brightest of smiles, but I can see the sadness in her eyes.
“I’m happy you made it.” she says, grabbing my hands.
Instinctively, my eyes dart around the crowd. I wonder if the terror I feel shows outwardly. She slowly lets my hands drop back to my sides. Her chuckle strikes me as beautiful.
We walk, not talking, but feeling plenty, over to where her bags await. Her two year personal hiatus has ended. Next week, she’ll begin teaching at Northwestern University. We’ve both known this since about a month in, but this isn’t why we can’t be.
“Samantha, I love you.” she finally says, turning to me, a look in her eyes that speaks of defeat, “I probably always will. But this…I know you’re not ready. I don’t think you’ll ever be ready.”
I open my mouth, but cannot speak. The way she says my name transports me back to being a teenage girl, growing up in Georgia. Training bra days and giggling over boys. I am jetted to my high school years, chocked full of third bases and dates to proms. Every guy I ever kissed was a prequel to her. And none of them made me feel nearly as good. But I never signed up for this.
Sara leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. It is soft, quick, but I feel it within me. There is also something there, breaking. Her fingers flow through my long black hair and she looks as though she wants to say something else. She stops herself. As I stand there, Sara collects her bags and turns to leave, just as they announce the final boarding call. I watch her move closer to the gate attendant, who is busy smiling and collecting tickets. She is closer to the doors that lead to the plane. Closer to gone from my life forever. I know that I should chase after her. Tell her about the ring and how I love her as well. But my feet are glued to their place in the airport. Perhaps I am glued to my place, as well.
When she’s gone, I turn around slowly, still trying to decipher what it all means and how this makes me feel. An older gentleman, around my father’s age, is standing nearby, watching me with a deep smile.
“Your girlfriend is very beautiful.” he says.
“She’s my sister.” I blurt out, far too quickly.
“Oh.” he says, looking off, as if he doesn’t notice my shame.
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