[All works of short fiction are 1st drafts unless otherwise noted.]
She was still short. She was still brunette. Her smile, still vaguely familiar. But nothing else about W. was the same. She stood on a beach with a man he didn't know and two grown sons, both taller than her. Her face looked weathered from too much sun, too much time. He scratched his graying beard and thought back to days in the school courtyard, lunch, just her and him and the sharing of secrets. Pizza for seventy-five cents.
The sun was always harsh but its radiation wasn't the concern. The Cold War was still on. Reagan and Gorbachev talked. The world was new and full of promise, excitement. W. made his heart hurt with her smile, the way the light caught her eyes, the way she shared with him her everything. Well, her almost everything.
He smiled, he comforted, he listened. She had guy problems. She shared. He cared. Until one day, unable to bear it anymore he told her how he felt and watched her face twitch and her eyes narrow. His wasn't the path of subtlety, more a vomiting up of emotion. She flinched as if she was being hit. Nothing ever was the same between them again.
They stayed in touch, off and on over the years. They still talked, less intimately than before, more conversationally, civilly. They crossed paths in college, briefly. He hurt but couldn't bring himself not to hurt in her presence and she, for her own reasons, couldn't bring herself to simply force him away. It was only years later, in the context of a random and rare email exchange that she chose to share her own burden, her own pain. Years caught up in his own feelings had blinded him to her reality. Hers was the pain of being the cause of another's pain through no fault of her own. He loved her, that much was clear to her and it wasn't that he was a bad person. He'd been a close friend once though she'd searched her heart. She'd never loved him. She never would. She'd been honest about how she felt. She'd never not cared for him and the imbalance of their feelings was a weight she carried with her every time she interacted with him. He had his pain, his memory of their time together. She had her own.
He moved on both in life and in social media. S. had younger kids though she was older. She had the same goofy smile but the years hadn't been kind to her either. He reflected on this as he stared at the built-in webcam on his all-in-one computer and thought how rarely he cared to turn it on anymore and see himself caught in its gaze. It felt like a hundred years ago with S. even if it was only twenty plus. The 'coalition of the willing' was going to save Kuwait. 'No new taxes' became, eventually, new taxes. College was different, free, exhilarating and there was S., a year older, seemingly years wiser, pretty, smart, funny, sharing courses with him.
The day came for him to tell her his feelings. He was better this time, there was less emotional vomit but the W.'s flinch had become S.'s flinch. Her smile of only a few minutes earlier faded, her face darkened. She was short, to the point, as if she'd had to do this before. She didn't love him. He was just her friend. That's all he was ever going to be.
There was little between them after that, even in the few classes they shared. The intimate had grown awkward. Conversation, once easy and smooth, was now strained. Soon enough there was her graduation which he half-heartedly attended while making a point to stay in the background. Soon afterwards, she was gone only to appear now, all these many years later, on a computer monitor in the form of thousands of pixels.
C. came in to the video store he was working in with her charges, to rent a movie. People did that then, rented movies in stores. Movies in large cases because they were videotapes, movies that needed to be rewound in a machine dedicated solely for that purpose at the front desk, when they were returned. C. was a nanny, her charges raced up and down the aisles wanting first this movie, then that. She laughed with them and giggled and found the whole thing fun. C. found everything fun.
She had an exotic look to her being of mixed heritage. The first thing you noticed, the first thing he noticed, anyway, was her eyes, then her smile, then her very large breasts. After some persistent coaxing he got her to agree to dinner on top of the mountain. It was a 'real date'. She looked amazing. He was proud of himself and the way he was able to keep eye contact throughout. There was an awkward kiss at the door goodnight. It would be their only kiss.
When he wasn't working he became a fixture at her employer's house, visiting her and her charges. He felt alive. She was fun, she was funny, she was pretty, light danced in her eyes changing their color depending on the angle one found one's self looking at them.
She was visibly upset when he told her how he felt. She kept asking him "Why?" She just wanted to be friends, nothing more. She seemed insistent on it. So, he let what he said drop, never brought it up again and tried to be 'just friends'.
He tried hard. She seemed to let the awkwardness slide away, or, maybe, she just ignored it. She wanted the friendship thing to work. He came and watched her at rehearsals for a play she was doing. He sat in the audience and watched her on stage and he could feel his heart tearing apart into a million little pieces. He'd go home, he lived alone in a place of his own. He'd cry. He'd blame himself for not being able to just be her friend. He'd feel consumed with a desire for something more. He'd once lie in his bed for four hours without moving hoping that if he just stayed still long enough and didn't do anything that, maybe, maybe he'd die and he wouldn't have to deal with his feelings anymore.
The hospital was a week-long stay. The first night, though he felt the same crippling sadness he'd felt for months before, he realized that he was in the wrong place. The people here weren't just sad like him, they were delusional, a few even downright scary. The week passed in seven days, like most weeks are prone to do. He was required to go to group therapy afterwards. He sat in a circle and listened to stories, some of which he could relate to and others, not so much. He participated in confidence building exercises, wrote in a journal, avoided negative stimuli and tried hard not to think about C.. He also kept to his meds, regularly.
He looked C. up, as he had the others. She was still single, her life mate being her husky/wolf hybrid. She was living in Alaska, over 3,000 miles away. They exchanged emails; short, civil, cordial. He got glimpses into her life via her picture posts. The pain that had drove him so hard once before had dulled. The light still danced in her eyes though, as it had years before. He quit visiting her profile and quit emailing her. She never emailed him again.
D. worked the pole at a local 'Gentleman's Club'. He never felt like the building was much of a clubhouse and saw few 'gentlemen' when he was there, which was more than his income could easily support, but D. had a way about her. She was a trained dancer and moved like one across the floor. She was short but had the most perfect posture he'd ever seen. Women with breasts 4 cup sizes bigger barely moved on stage, instead choosing to sway their largess back and forth with an uneasy smile as money came their way quickly and easily. D.'s breasts were recognizable by her erect nipples only but she was fit, curvy at the waist and her muscular legs grabbed the center stage pole and refused to let go. Every dance was a show and he found it impossible not to give his money away to her along with his heart.
Soon he was coming just to see her. They moved beyond her stage name to her real name. They moved beyond her grinding in his lap to him buying her drinks and them talking about her day. They exchanged book recommends, fave movies, fave authors. When one of her fave authors came to his work, he made sure to buy a hardcover copy of one of their books and get it signed just for her. When he gave it to her from Christmas she broke down crying. It was the first time, she said, that a man at the 'club' had given her a gift that hadn't been lingerie.
He took her out once. Only once. A date. A proper date. Dinner was Italian and the limo was a stretch job and black. Her conservative, classy dress was black and she looked more beautiful with clothes on than she did in the dim light of her job. The show was Cats and the seats were center ones with a good view. During intermission he spent more than he wanted to on a couple of signature black sweatshirts. After the show, he still had time on the limo. The rode around town. She wanted him to take her to work so she could brag. He did. The night ended with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Later, when he told D. how he felt, in the 'club' having to speak louder than he wanted to in order to be heard above the thumping music she looked disappointed. She didn't flinch. It was if she had seen it coming, expected it even. Surely, he thought, this wasn't her first rodeo. She apologized, got up, left to keep a commitment to a customer and didn't return.
She was in Arizona now, her last name changed, her relationship status unclear. Her breasts were 4 cup sizes larger than he'd been and looked awkward on her still small frame. Her smile was thin and wan but her eyes were still fiery and determined. Time had been good to her, breast enhancement aside. He wrote her, on impulse. She never wrote back.
There was another D. and there was J., there was S. and LM., all nice women, all attractive, all really caring for him. He had sex with three of the four but couldn't bring himself to feel about them the way they felt about him.
Years passed and his heart, like a wary fish, avoided latching on to anything or anyone who tempted it. He got a promotion at his work. He wound up with a teammate, A., short, pretty, a dirty blonde with an edge, an attitude and a freshly awarded college degree. She was fifteen years his junior. Her being short didn't stop her from being curvy and she seemed to pack the maximum amount of femininity into the smallest frame possible. She was loud. Her laugh was annoying. Her confidence bordered on cocky. He couldn't see it working.
He was depressed then, not yet about A. but about life in general. Work was overwhelming. Bills were overwhelming. He wasn't happy with where he was in his life. Time had passed too quickly and he was nowhere near where he'd expected to be at this point. A. grew on him. She was nice. Cocky, sure? Loud? Definitely. But she was funny. She worked hard enough to justify the cocky and he liked that. She closed a deal, a big deal, she'd been working on. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care. He bought her flowers to celebrate.
They didn't meet out of work though they did joint presentations from time to time. Her cubby was just the other side of his. He became friends with her friend, J.. They'd have lunch together and talk and joke. For Valentine's Day they decided to do secret Valentine's. He remembered getting a $20 gift card to a bar and grill type restaurant. He'd drawn A. and made sure to buy her the DVD boxed set of a movie she'd liked. She loved it. She bragged about it. She wanted to ditch work early to go home and watch it.
Life held little joy for him then. He looked forward to seeing her, hearing her from the other side of the partition, prattle on about whatever. About anything. She was a candle that he clutched at in the darkness. She was something and when he dared think of her, his heart quit aching.
A singer she loved was coming to town. He bought her two tickets. Great seats. Told her to take someone, anyone, so long as they were someone she cared about. She was hesitant. It was too much, she said, the tickets, too expensive. She wanted to go though, so, in the end she took them and a friend. He remembered staying at home the night of the show, wondering how it was, if she was having fun and crying himself to sleep.
A. got a better job. More responsibility, better pay. She was quitting. He was proud of her. So young and going places. She'd worked hard for this so, he was happy for her. It meant he'd likely never see her again, he told himself. He was devastated.
On her last day there'd be a group lunch. He ordered her not one but two dozen roses for her desk. She cried. She cried a lot that day. Everyone was happy for her but everyone was sad she was leaving. The group lunch started out well but he left before it was over, trying to see the door, trying to find his way through the parking lot to his car. Keep moving, he told himself, don't stop. If you stop you'll double over and start crying and then where will you be. Somehow he drove home.
Somehow he kept going to work. Every day was torture. Her cubby was empty. She wasn't there. Her friend J. looked at him with what he hoped was concern and what he was afraid of was some sort of judgement. She was a good listener at first but as days turned into weeks she became less sympathetic, more distant. He could hear her frustration. She didn't want to hear him talk about his feelings. She wouldn't talk about A.. She wouldn't tell him anything about her.
After some begging he got a friend to call A. on his behalf. He felt as if he was crossing a line but he felt like he couldn't stop himself. His friend tried to cushion the blow. A. never saw him as anything more than a nice coworker. He was too old for her. She was only interested in men her own age. She was exasperated. She didn't know what he wanted from her or what he expected. She had no idea what she'd done to engender such deep emotion. A. told his friend that he needed help. That she if she ever felt comfortable, she'd contact him. She never did.
Work was long, every minute was painful. He went to presentations and barely kept himself together only to wind up sobbing outside in his car. Productivity suffered. There was talk about hiring her replacement. His boss wanted him to sit in on the interviews. There was no way he could handle that, no way he could interview someone to take her place, no way he could bear to see someone else sitting at her desk.
He quit. He had no new job lined up. He had no idea what he was going to do. Quitting meant no health insurance. He quit anyway. He spent his days curled up in his apartment at home crying and trying to sleep as much as possible. The nights weren't bad but the early mornings were brutal. The sun dawning to a new day meant another round of battles, another round of trying to get through, another day he had to get past, somehow.
His family helped with bills. He tried to job hunt but was miserable at it. The depression he'd felt before he had feelings for A. had come back and then some. Nothing mattered. Nothing made sense. It was all futile anyway, he reasoned. Death was coming for us all in the long run.
His doctor gave him discounts and put him back on medication. He didn't seem to be getting any better. When he asked his doctor how many of his blood pressure pills he'd have to take in order to kill himself his doctor wasn't pleased. He went to ER after ER and was turned away every time. He was depressed, no one argued that but he wasn't assessed to be a risk to himself until finally, on his 4th or 5th try, the hospital decided he had to stay. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His blood pressure was uncomfortably high. He was admitted.
It was a ten day stretch this time, not seven. He spent his days in the community room watching TV. Lots of infomercials and bad movies. The food was good enough not to be bad and bad enough not to be good. The list of rules was a mile long. At night some of the patients screamed, others snored and the frosted windows kept you from being able to look outside. The courtyard, where one could walk, it was late June, early July, had high walls and was secure from attempted escapes, if he had even had the energy to try something like that. Family and friends visited. They all looked concerned. A psychiatrist checked his med levels and talked to him for 5-minutes a day, a couple of residents learning the trade in tow. There were no counseling sessions (the counselor position had been vacant a while) and no daily activities (the activity coordinator position had been vacant a while). He grew a beard rather than try to shave with the flimsy plastic razors they handed out. After ten days he was deemed well-enough for the world again and set free.
He found a job. He went to work. He came home. He cried. He stuck to his meds and slowly, very slowly, he found that he could get through a day without crying. Then two. Sometimes three. Everything reminded him of her. He thought of her all the time except when he was sleeping. He liked sleeping.
He avoided looking for A. on the Internet, more so than the others. He didn't want to see her. He was afraid of all the feelings rushing back to him. But as he had looked up his other olds he decided that, after a certain number of years, it was time to look her up as well.
There she was, sitting in the grass in her pic. Married. Her husband and kids with her. He teared up but he didn't cry. His heart hurt but he didn't double over and spend the rest of the day in a fetal position. He got up and shuffled into the other room to get a drink. He turned the swamp cooler on, it was getting hot. He came back to the computer, got off her profile page and decided to play a movie. He picked something he'd seen a million times before, something that gave him a semblance of comfort.
And so he sat, in his t-shirt and boxers, that weekend day in Summer, scratching his graying beard, staring blankly at the screen of his computer, alone with his memories, listening as his cooler kicked on. He looked at the built-in webcam camera again and was glad he didn't turn it on and turned his attention back to the movie. He'd have a pill later, for anxiety, and he'd take a nap and he'd hope not to dream of anything he'd ever wanted.
Copyright M.R. McCaffery, 2014. All rights reserved.
She was still short. She was still brunette. Her smile, still vaguely familiar. But nothing else about W. was the same. She stood on a beach with a man he didn't know and two grown sons, both taller than her. Her face looked weathered from too much sun, too much time. He scratched his graying beard and thought back to days in the school courtyard, lunch, just her and him and the sharing of secrets. Pizza for seventy-five cents.
The sun was always harsh but its radiation wasn't the concern. The Cold War was still on. Reagan and Gorbachev talked. The world was new and full of promise, excitement. W. made his heart hurt with her smile, the way the light caught her eyes, the way she shared with him her everything. Well, her almost everything.
He smiled, he comforted, he listened. She had guy problems. She shared. He cared. Until one day, unable to bear it anymore he told her how he felt and watched her face twitch and her eyes narrow. His wasn't the path of subtlety, more a vomiting up of emotion. She flinched as if she was being hit. Nothing ever was the same between them again.
They stayed in touch, off and on over the years. They still talked, less intimately than before, more conversationally, civilly. They crossed paths in college, briefly. He hurt but couldn't bring himself not to hurt in her presence and she, for her own reasons, couldn't bring herself to simply force him away. It was only years later, in the context of a random and rare email exchange that she chose to share her own burden, her own pain. Years caught up in his own feelings had blinded him to her reality. Hers was the pain of being the cause of another's pain through no fault of her own. He loved her, that much was clear to her and it wasn't that he was a bad person. He'd been a close friend once though she'd searched her heart. She'd never loved him. She never would. She'd been honest about how she felt. She'd never not cared for him and the imbalance of their feelings was a weight she carried with her every time she interacted with him. He had his pain, his memory of their time together. She had her own.
He moved on both in life and in social media. S. had younger kids though she was older. She had the same goofy smile but the years hadn't been kind to her either. He reflected on this as he stared at the built-in webcam on his all-in-one computer and thought how rarely he cared to turn it on anymore and see himself caught in its gaze. It felt like a hundred years ago with S. even if it was only twenty plus. The 'coalition of the willing' was going to save Kuwait. 'No new taxes' became, eventually, new taxes. College was different, free, exhilarating and there was S., a year older, seemingly years wiser, pretty, smart, funny, sharing courses with him.
The day came for him to tell her his feelings. He was better this time, there was less emotional vomit but the W.'s flinch had become S.'s flinch. Her smile of only a few minutes earlier faded, her face darkened. She was short, to the point, as if she'd had to do this before. She didn't love him. He was just her friend. That's all he was ever going to be.
There was little between them after that, even in the few classes they shared. The intimate had grown awkward. Conversation, once easy and smooth, was now strained. Soon enough there was her graduation which he half-heartedly attended while making a point to stay in the background. Soon afterwards, she was gone only to appear now, all these many years later, on a computer monitor in the form of thousands of pixels.
C. came in to the video store he was working in with her charges, to rent a movie. People did that then, rented movies in stores. Movies in large cases because they were videotapes, movies that needed to be rewound in a machine dedicated solely for that purpose at the front desk, when they were returned. C. was a nanny, her charges raced up and down the aisles wanting first this movie, then that. She laughed with them and giggled and found the whole thing fun. C. found everything fun.
She had an exotic look to her being of mixed heritage. The first thing you noticed, the first thing he noticed, anyway, was her eyes, then her smile, then her very large breasts. After some persistent coaxing he got her to agree to dinner on top of the mountain. It was a 'real date'. She looked amazing. He was proud of himself and the way he was able to keep eye contact throughout. There was an awkward kiss at the door goodnight. It would be their only kiss.
When he wasn't working he became a fixture at her employer's house, visiting her and her charges. He felt alive. She was fun, she was funny, she was pretty, light danced in her eyes changing their color depending on the angle one found one's self looking at them.
She was visibly upset when he told her how he felt. She kept asking him "Why?" She just wanted to be friends, nothing more. She seemed insistent on it. So, he let what he said drop, never brought it up again and tried to be 'just friends'.
He tried hard. She seemed to let the awkwardness slide away, or, maybe, she just ignored it. She wanted the friendship thing to work. He came and watched her at rehearsals for a play she was doing. He sat in the audience and watched her on stage and he could feel his heart tearing apart into a million little pieces. He'd go home, he lived alone in a place of his own. He'd cry. He'd blame himself for not being able to just be her friend. He'd feel consumed with a desire for something more. He'd once lie in his bed for four hours without moving hoping that if he just stayed still long enough and didn't do anything that, maybe, maybe he'd die and he wouldn't have to deal with his feelings anymore.
The hospital was a week-long stay. The first night, though he felt the same crippling sadness he'd felt for months before, he realized that he was in the wrong place. The people here weren't just sad like him, they were delusional, a few even downright scary. The week passed in seven days, like most weeks are prone to do. He was required to go to group therapy afterwards. He sat in a circle and listened to stories, some of which he could relate to and others, not so much. He participated in confidence building exercises, wrote in a journal, avoided negative stimuli and tried hard not to think about C.. He also kept to his meds, regularly.
He looked C. up, as he had the others. She was still single, her life mate being her husky/wolf hybrid. She was living in Alaska, over 3,000 miles away. They exchanged emails; short, civil, cordial. He got glimpses into her life via her picture posts. The pain that had drove him so hard once before had dulled. The light still danced in her eyes though, as it had years before. He quit visiting her profile and quit emailing her. She never emailed him again.
D. worked the pole at a local 'Gentleman's Club'. He never felt like the building was much of a clubhouse and saw few 'gentlemen' when he was there, which was more than his income could easily support, but D. had a way about her. She was a trained dancer and moved like one across the floor. She was short but had the most perfect posture he'd ever seen. Women with breasts 4 cup sizes bigger barely moved on stage, instead choosing to sway their largess back and forth with an uneasy smile as money came their way quickly and easily. D.'s breasts were recognizable by her erect nipples only but she was fit, curvy at the waist and her muscular legs grabbed the center stage pole and refused to let go. Every dance was a show and he found it impossible not to give his money away to her along with his heart.
Soon he was coming just to see her. They moved beyond her stage name to her real name. They moved beyond her grinding in his lap to him buying her drinks and them talking about her day. They exchanged book recommends, fave movies, fave authors. When one of her fave authors came to his work, he made sure to buy a hardcover copy of one of their books and get it signed just for her. When he gave it to her from Christmas she broke down crying. It was the first time, she said, that a man at the 'club' had given her a gift that hadn't been lingerie.
He took her out once. Only once. A date. A proper date. Dinner was Italian and the limo was a stretch job and black. Her conservative, classy dress was black and she looked more beautiful with clothes on than she did in the dim light of her job. The show was Cats and the seats were center ones with a good view. During intermission he spent more than he wanted to on a couple of signature black sweatshirts. After the show, he still had time on the limo. The rode around town. She wanted him to take her to work so she could brag. He did. The night ended with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Later, when he told D. how he felt, in the 'club' having to speak louder than he wanted to in order to be heard above the thumping music she looked disappointed. She didn't flinch. It was if she had seen it coming, expected it even. Surely, he thought, this wasn't her first rodeo. She apologized, got up, left to keep a commitment to a customer and didn't return.
She was in Arizona now, her last name changed, her relationship status unclear. Her breasts were 4 cup sizes larger than he'd been and looked awkward on her still small frame. Her smile was thin and wan but her eyes were still fiery and determined. Time had been good to her, breast enhancement aside. He wrote her, on impulse. She never wrote back.
There was another D. and there was J., there was S. and LM., all nice women, all attractive, all really caring for him. He had sex with three of the four but couldn't bring himself to feel about them the way they felt about him.
Years passed and his heart, like a wary fish, avoided latching on to anything or anyone who tempted it. He got a promotion at his work. He wound up with a teammate, A., short, pretty, a dirty blonde with an edge, an attitude and a freshly awarded college degree. She was fifteen years his junior. Her being short didn't stop her from being curvy and she seemed to pack the maximum amount of femininity into the smallest frame possible. She was loud. Her laugh was annoying. Her confidence bordered on cocky. He couldn't see it working.
He was depressed then, not yet about A. but about life in general. Work was overwhelming. Bills were overwhelming. He wasn't happy with where he was in his life. Time had passed too quickly and he was nowhere near where he'd expected to be at this point. A. grew on him. She was nice. Cocky, sure? Loud? Definitely. But she was funny. She worked hard enough to justify the cocky and he liked that. She closed a deal, a big deal, she'd been working on. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care. He bought her flowers to celebrate.
They didn't meet out of work though they did joint presentations from time to time. Her cubby was just the other side of his. He became friends with her friend, J.. They'd have lunch together and talk and joke. For Valentine's Day they decided to do secret Valentine's. He remembered getting a $20 gift card to a bar and grill type restaurant. He'd drawn A. and made sure to buy her the DVD boxed set of a movie she'd liked. She loved it. She bragged about it. She wanted to ditch work early to go home and watch it.
Life held little joy for him then. He looked forward to seeing her, hearing her from the other side of the partition, prattle on about whatever. About anything. She was a candle that he clutched at in the darkness. She was something and when he dared think of her, his heart quit aching.
A singer she loved was coming to town. He bought her two tickets. Great seats. Told her to take someone, anyone, so long as they were someone she cared about. She was hesitant. It was too much, she said, the tickets, too expensive. She wanted to go though, so, in the end she took them and a friend. He remembered staying at home the night of the show, wondering how it was, if she was having fun and crying himself to sleep.
A. got a better job. More responsibility, better pay. She was quitting. He was proud of her. So young and going places. She'd worked hard for this so, he was happy for her. It meant he'd likely never see her again, he told himself. He was devastated.
On her last day there'd be a group lunch. He ordered her not one but two dozen roses for her desk. She cried. She cried a lot that day. Everyone was happy for her but everyone was sad she was leaving. The group lunch started out well but he left before it was over, trying to see the door, trying to find his way through the parking lot to his car. Keep moving, he told himself, don't stop. If you stop you'll double over and start crying and then where will you be. Somehow he drove home.
Somehow he kept going to work. Every day was torture. Her cubby was empty. She wasn't there. Her friend J. looked at him with what he hoped was concern and what he was afraid of was some sort of judgement. She was a good listener at first but as days turned into weeks she became less sympathetic, more distant. He could hear her frustration. She didn't want to hear him talk about his feelings. She wouldn't talk about A.. She wouldn't tell him anything about her.
After some begging he got a friend to call A. on his behalf. He felt as if he was crossing a line but he felt like he couldn't stop himself. His friend tried to cushion the blow. A. never saw him as anything more than a nice coworker. He was too old for her. She was only interested in men her own age. She was exasperated. She didn't know what he wanted from her or what he expected. She had no idea what she'd done to engender such deep emotion. A. told his friend that he needed help. That she if she ever felt comfortable, she'd contact him. She never did.
Work was long, every minute was painful. He went to presentations and barely kept himself together only to wind up sobbing outside in his car. Productivity suffered. There was talk about hiring her replacement. His boss wanted him to sit in on the interviews. There was no way he could handle that, no way he could interview someone to take her place, no way he could bear to see someone else sitting at her desk.
He quit. He had no new job lined up. He had no idea what he was going to do. Quitting meant no health insurance. He quit anyway. He spent his days curled up in his apartment at home crying and trying to sleep as much as possible. The nights weren't bad but the early mornings were brutal. The sun dawning to a new day meant another round of battles, another round of trying to get through, another day he had to get past, somehow.
His family helped with bills. He tried to job hunt but was miserable at it. The depression he'd felt before he had feelings for A. had come back and then some. Nothing mattered. Nothing made sense. It was all futile anyway, he reasoned. Death was coming for us all in the long run.
His doctor gave him discounts and put him back on medication. He didn't seem to be getting any better. When he asked his doctor how many of his blood pressure pills he'd have to take in order to kill himself his doctor wasn't pleased. He went to ER after ER and was turned away every time. He was depressed, no one argued that but he wasn't assessed to be a risk to himself until finally, on his 4th or 5th try, the hospital decided he had to stay. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His blood pressure was uncomfortably high. He was admitted.
It was a ten day stretch this time, not seven. He spent his days in the community room watching TV. Lots of infomercials and bad movies. The food was good enough not to be bad and bad enough not to be good. The list of rules was a mile long. At night some of the patients screamed, others snored and the frosted windows kept you from being able to look outside. The courtyard, where one could walk, it was late June, early July, had high walls and was secure from attempted escapes, if he had even had the energy to try something like that. Family and friends visited. They all looked concerned. A psychiatrist checked his med levels and talked to him for 5-minutes a day, a couple of residents learning the trade in tow. There were no counseling sessions (the counselor position had been vacant a while) and no daily activities (the activity coordinator position had been vacant a while). He grew a beard rather than try to shave with the flimsy plastic razors they handed out. After ten days he was deemed well-enough for the world again and set free.
He found a job. He went to work. He came home. He cried. He stuck to his meds and slowly, very slowly, he found that he could get through a day without crying. Then two. Sometimes three. Everything reminded him of her. He thought of her all the time except when he was sleeping. He liked sleeping.
He avoided looking for A. on the Internet, more so than the others. He didn't want to see her. He was afraid of all the feelings rushing back to him. But as he had looked up his other olds he decided that, after a certain number of years, it was time to look her up as well.
There she was, sitting in the grass in her pic. Married. Her husband and kids with her. He teared up but he didn't cry. His heart hurt but he didn't double over and spend the rest of the day in a fetal position. He got up and shuffled into the other room to get a drink. He turned the swamp cooler on, it was getting hot. He came back to the computer, got off her profile page and decided to play a movie. He picked something he'd seen a million times before, something that gave him a semblance of comfort.
And so he sat, in his t-shirt and boxers, that weekend day in Summer, scratching his graying beard, staring blankly at the screen of his computer, alone with his memories, listening as his cooler kicked on. He looked at the built-in webcam camera again and was glad he didn't turn it on and turned his attention back to the movie. He'd have a pill later, for anxiety, and he'd take a nap and he'd hope not to dream of anything he'd ever wanted.
Copyright M.R. McCaffery, 2014. All rights reserved.
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