The past is present
Words are just the remnants of broken hearts
I saw him through the window. A little less perfect than I remembered, but still there, in the flesh. I ran to the back room and said a silent prayer.
Please, don’t let it be him.
I don’t like saying I ran away. But there were things in my past that motivated a swift departure. Memories that needed to stay buried, if only for my sanity.
“Oh yeah, I think she’s here,” I overheard Andre say to someone. “Let me check the back, I’m not sure where she went.”
My kindhearted coworker, unbeknownst to the tragedy that existed in another life, was hopefully searching for someone who desperately wanted to become invisible.
“Why would you say I’m here?!” I asked incredulously, as I sat in the corner between paper towel rolls, while the toxic smell of bleach overpowered the comfortable coffee beans.
He gave me a confused look. “I didn’t know you weren’t.”
Facing the undeniable truth that I had to confront him eventually, I stepped out of the back room as if I was walking into hell. All the anguish, resentment and pain I hadn’t let myself feel in months came flooding back.
“Hi,” he said with the smile I tried so hard to forget.
“What do you want?” I asked darkly, adjusting my unflattering black apron.
Michael, how could you do that to me? I wanted to say. After everything I gave to you; you cast me aside.
But I didn’t. Instead I maintained my stoic nonchalance, waiting with baited breath for the breakdown that never came.
That was what saved me. You should never let those who hurt you see the true pain they caused. Let them see the scar has healed; see that they were just a blemish on an otherwise smooth memory.
I stared at him, waiting for an answer.
“I heard you’re a writer now,” he told me. “I’m happy you’re finally doing it.”
I wanted to punch him in the face right then and there. How dare he speak to me as if he had a right to support my dreams? Like the nights we spent talking about the future, preferably one together, actually meant something?
Gathering up a voice that was trying hard to break against my throat I replied, “Yes. Some things I commit to tend to be successful.”
His painful grimace was noticeable, if only to those of us who were looking for it. The obvious discomfort made me feel a little better, but not enough to bring me to a place I was comfortable with.
Sensing the obvious tension, Andre chimed in. “Honey, weren’t you working on something in the back? I’ll be there to help you when the next shift arrives.”
I didn’t wait for a response; digging my heel into the crack in the tile, I turned around and ran into storage. Just like last time, I didn’t look back.
Breathe.
In my heart I knew he would surface, I was just really hoping he wouldn’t. I had spent the last few months building a wall between myself and the life I left behind; one that I thought was insurmountable. Clearly I had to make it higher.
“Are you okay?” Andre whispered.
I looked up to his kind eyes, a perfect pair of clear blue crystals that never let me down.
“No, but I’m working on it.”
He pushed my hair out of my face, something I only ever let Andre do.
He got up and closed the door to leave me alone with the dish soap and napkins. I snuck out the backdoor, gripping my phone like a lifesaver, praying I had work that would make me forget my misery.
Even if I didn’t, I would still head home and craft a new story. Writing was the only thing that made me feel better. I would turn Michael into a villain in both my writing and my mind; a role he would play beautifully.
Writing with pain is always more powerful than writing with pleasure. Today my words would be painful.
