FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #3

I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. You are getting married. My fingertips lose the feeling of the pages they hold up and the blood drains from my limbs, my face, all drawing back into my gut. A tingle circulates through my body that pricks at every nerve ending and I think, for a moment, that I must look like the static on an old television.

You. Who would rant about conformity and The Man when Domino’s fired you for not showing up.  Who would come to my restaurant, our only source of income, regardless of my boss, my tables, my sanity, and profess your love on tabletops, consequence be damned. I loved that.  But this. This is the consequence of that life for too long… I guess we were too happy? As I stare at you, the corners of my vision blur and color is fading from the world around this black and white page.

The tiny girl across from me sees that something is wrong, and I’m sure to give her a smile because kids shouldn’t worry. I can do this, because a good waitress can always smile.

Besides, this is not my business. I look back down at the paper now, and I want to slap that stupid grin off your face. But no, this is silly. Because you are allowed to marry Helena Winchester of Philadelphia, (and West Hampton, and Lexington and 5^th Ave) whose father is a steel man (and mother is a volunteer) and I am not allowed to feel the way I do right now about your decision.

So please, let me stop. It’s the worst kind of pain; a stupid pain that I know I shouldn’t be feeling because hell, no one is dead or dying, and I have no physical ailment to speak of. It’s embarrassing to hurt so uncontrollably right now. And being embarrassed over you, over my feelings about your decisions, well, that’s just more than I’ve ever wanted to feel about you in the first place. And this thought alone is making my brain thud against my skull, chipping away the bone to escape this stupid trap it has created for itself. I wish you would stop looking at me like that.

So pleased with yourself. So happy with you and this life that you’ve found here. This woman whose family has conquered the city, you grabbed her. As soon as this place was swallowing you up, because I remember you’re dying days here, you saw her and took her and now that smile is the only proof you have that you’ve won. But anyone can smile.

I’m smiling right now, goddamn it, and it hurts but it’s helping; as long as my lips stay stretched tight they can keep me focused, on task; before it rubs itself raw trying to get out.

Do you remember this smile? My blueberry muffin and fancy coffee, because I knew it was the last meal I would get out of you. Your stupid smirk like you owned me fading into a panicked self-awareness that never quite turned to a consternation of taking responsibility. No, you wouldn’t have gotten that far even if I hadn’t stopped you. Hadn’t assured you that I’d “alieviated the problem.” Killed it.

I’m sure Helena fixes things for you. Ties your ties and teaches you how to eat a cherry tomato with a fork. Maybe your work shows in galleries now, but I’m sure it’s your talent finally blossoming. She’s just there to affix your cuff links, right?

Already I feel the knocking in my skull freezing. While I think of your new life and wealth and girl, it’s all clenching up, clutched by bitterness that might be hurting now more than that tingle. Everything behind my face is squeezing together but it’s so painful that I can’t focus. Focus on you and penthouses and Manhattan above 14^th street and ow.

Ow. It’s starting to squeeze my heart. But in the same way my heart was squeezed when you brought me out to Brooklyn for that meteor shower. It’s like a hand holding it, pressing against its beat, and back then, when I didn’t understand it, I thought it was fun, adventurous. I felt it one other time, in a hospital, a cold pale room, without you and because of you. Then it stopped-replaced by emptiness before I could figure it out. But now I get it. This clutching hand is telling me, in a rhythm against my heart, I don’t have control of anything. Anything. And realizing this is stopping my breath and this hand is grabbing tighter between beats which go faster and the blackness outside of the subway has flashing white lights whirring by and nothing seems real anymore until I see that little girl across from me.

And I smile at her, because that’s all I can do. Blonde hair in knots, green eyes too big for her head, striped winter gloves and a tiny pink backpack. She knows where it’s at. And that’s what it takes for me to come back. To stare down at the wedding announcement below yours, and the next, and the obits to follow, as if I read these all the time, like my news comes from the announcements section of the New York Times. I will read it now like I read the World News. It is sad, but I will not be affected. I am done being affected. I swallow the dry air in my throat and it pushes everything down with it. 

And when you call me next week, again, scared and alone, again, and aware of everything you have done wrong and will keep doing wrong (again), I will not answer my phone. I will be serving food in a Lower East Side café, as if I’ve been doing it all my life, as if I could do it forever, with a smile. 

back to Contest #3