A man flounders about on his knees, his hand reaching under beige cabinets for a capsule shaped object on a dirt laden tile floor. On his knees, he feels it in his palm then pinches between his fingers and bringing it to his face. What used to be a pure white color pill appears extraneously from its origins; covered in an abandoned spider’s web and accumulated dirt from the kitchen’s floor. The man knows what he holds in his hands is far from salubrious and abjuring in caution would be best. I, for one, would most certainly refuse to contemplate such a possibility—throwing away food even if a fly was even in its vicinity. He pops the pills in his mouth, unfazed, without a single wipe and without even water. After throwing the Vicodin pill down, he turns around and leans his back against the kitchen cabinets. Drips of sweat rolls down the side of his face and along his neck as he waits for the pill to placate his lassitude. He then buries the side of his face into his left palm, rubbing it into his forehead while breathing a defeated sigh of relief contemplating what brought him to this point. Could death be kinder?
The scene shifts to this same man sitting outside a coffee shop, at its outside seating. Reaching into his pocket, he produces a folded piece of yellow stationary. After unfolding it, his hazel eyes scan a copy of the wrinkled letter he mailed her.
“I need to know about the heart pendant. I need to know what it meant. I’m confused. I only asked you to return the necklace I bought for you, so I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. Are you telling me your heart is with me? Are you telling me you still love me? If so, meet me at the Good Morning Café, our old hangout, at 1:30 p.m. on Saturday and let’s talk.”
After he reads the letter again, he stuffs it back inside his pocket then checking a watch that shows the time is now 3 p.m. He looks up into the hot spring sun with a reddened countenance, winces his eyes, and then bows his head, his eyes on the ground searching for a lost effervescent hope.
The scene shifts yet again, like moving through a portal in my mind, to this man once more.
Shifting to another moment, I see this same man, again. I’m unsure why I’m seeing him but this time he’s seated in his car. He takes a deep breath, his baggy eyes to the air as a Blackberry sits on his lap. For some reason, every second that passes seems to be torturous on his mind, even on his soul. His legs fidget below him, as the air from the high blowing air conditioning hits him square in the face, yet beads of sweat appear on his forehead as he reaches for something in his pocket. There is a sense of dread on his face—a finality of some kind likened to death. He stares down at the Blackberry unable to face its contents—like a bad ending to an engrossing story. Suddenly, the communication device vibrates and starts to blink red. He immediately puts the phone to his face and reads its incoming message—hopeful.
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“Are we ok?” he reads.
He wants to respond “we’re fine” but something stops him, something very powerful—the truth about his feelings. He begins to respond then stops himself—he doesn’t want to hurt her with how he feels. How what she has done has turned him into someone completely different from the man he had known for almost forty years. He can’t deny the other awful truth about his feelings—that he loves her deeply.
“We’re fine.” He responds then send his text message to her.
A few seconds later a response appears.
“Are u sure?” reads the electronic message.
“Yes.” He responds quickly knowing any delay may reveal how he truly feels bringing pain to her.
He then starts to scroll through his messages, to the one she sent at five in the morning. The one he anticipated from her for the last week before she made her two-week trip known to him.
5:00 a.m.
“Hi! Don’t know if this message will ever get to you. Anyway, hope you are doing well. On a Canary Island, Tenerife. Miss you.”
Upon reading the message, he shakes his head then buries it into his hands—ostensibly hopeless.
I'm once again transported, but this time to a courtroom—to witness the same man sitting there alone. There is no judge present—no jury, no attorneys, no defendant or plaintiff, no bailiff or stenographer. The man looks defeated, even comatose. Then, without warning, even with no one in the room, accusations are heard from a female.
“We were in a brief relationship.”
“My husband has never cheated on me.”
“He’s been harassing me for years!”
“He won’t move on!”
“He forced me into being with him!”
“He threatened to tell my kids about us.”
“He threatened to kidnap me and my children!”
“Why is he trying to destroy my family?”
The man tries to get out of his chair, but he is shocked to find he is handcuffed to it, unable to escape the rain of judgments pouring down upon him. The final one—seemed to be the worst of all, causing him to bring his head to the desk.
“I don’t love him.”