Super Glue
The silence is deafening. You said all you could remember from the hours of rehearsing to yourself. You practiced exactly what to say, how to say it, even the right moment to touch my hand as I stared into my coffee. I wonder to myself if it’s possible to get a larger cup: I’m going to need it. Three shots of flavoring please. Oh, no! Not caramel, whisky would be nice. Thanks. The server walks away, confused why one boy is choking back tears as the other leans in to begin more whispering, attempting to not be too loud for the surrounding ears of the biblically entertained.
I trace the rim of the glass with a finger as I try to gather my thoughts, though I focus more on the loose grounds drowned at the bottom of the shallow murkiness. To be quite honest, I had a feeling something was wrong, or at least not right. Well, I guess right and wrong are only relative at this point. While this is wrong for me, it is right for you. Was it relative when we first kissed? Is it relative for my heart to be made of glue, and you just so happened to be nearby as I flung it to see where it would land. I know I have an awful aim, but maybe if it had hit a tree, I would be stopping the destruction of the park across the street instead of you bulldozing through the little cottage I built for us. It was a cozy little home, with the fireplace always ablaze, but I had just stepped through the threshold to a dark room, wall bare.
You sit at a table set for two, prepared to tell me of your future; a future without me. No, I stand corrected. A future with me, but only as a memory, or learning experience, whatever explanation is easiest for your conscious to accept. I was a steppingstone of emotions as you moved onto the next, I lay sunk in the ground. I wonder if that is how these coffee grounds felt as they sank to the bottom. My mind plays with these thoughts as it becomes more difficult not to cry. Each inhale is like another pump at the old well. I look up to see you staring at me as though waiting for me to ease your conscience. I can’t fake this feeling; I’ve surpassed being able to draw on a smile to pretend it will all be alright.
The server returns with a refill for my cup, but at that moment it was too much for me to sit in the booth any longer. I push past her, aiming for the parking lot. I hurry in the best ‘I’m upset, stay out of my way’ walk I could perform. The brisk mountain air hits me hard as I push through the diner’s doors. I look for my car, but remember I rode with you. I refuse to go back inside; I refuse to give you this moment. You just had yours, now it’s my turn.
The statement I’m making is that I thought this meant more; I thought I meant more. I thought. Maybe I didn’t think. I was so infused at the thought of even thinking of you. That glue dried fast - too fast. Now I was left in the gravel lot off the mountain road, crying over torn heart strings that had once been connected to you. I hear a bell behind me; I knew it was you walking out the door, and it was only confirmed with the double beep of your car unlocking. I climb into the passenger’s seat and stare out the window as you pull onto the road to drive us home.
