Monday, March 02, 2009
2:52 PM |
[excerpt from a story in progress...]
That night, a long time ago, I looked across the divide, that few feet between us and the dining table, and saw how utterly small
you've become. You didn't know, but between bites of the succulent fish and the sips of the crisp red wine, I was peering at you from behind my knife and fork and my goblet, and I was thinking: where was all that old beauty, all my remembered glints of your brilliance and sweetness?
I saw only how tired you looked. How fat. How unkempt, as if the world was no longer worth the slightest bit of care. How sadly your shoulders sagged. And how you talked. All I saw and heard were pockmarks of resentment that must come from somewhere, some dark past, some deep reservoir of pain you have never really acknowledged to anybody, not even to me ... not when we were still friends. The subtlety of the venom that made you spew on and on about how you hate everything
, or how everybody seemed geared to disappoint you, was still unabated -- surprising even to me -- by this something you call a new love. Sometimes -- and only sometimes -- I wonder how I used to spend many nights building monuments in dreams to the sweet memory of your name. Sometimes I don't even know who you are anymore. It makes me sad, but only just so
: in the end, I cannot bring myself to care anymore. That night, the wine and the fish were good, the night mercifully quick. I think I said goodbye. I must have. I remember most the welcome freshness of the night air outside, and it was that which led me home, to my fitful sleep, where you don't exist anymore.
 This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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