Narrative - Fragment
It was an unusually cold March morning in NYC. She walked
briskly bent against the wind which seemed to cut through every piece of
clothing she wore. She had a mission - she needed to reach Boston that day
without fail. As she turned the corner she saw the bus waiting a half block ahead. She could not wait to reach the
warmth of its interior - she needed to sleep. she was up at five this morning
and for her that was a minor miracle. But her need had driven her - she knew
she needed to rescue the one relationship in her life that made any sense the
one relationship that had any good in it. : She needed to hang onto the one
love that had finally satisfied her deep hunger and needs
His bitter words still rung in her ears and her
tears still came too easily as she made her way to the bus that would hopefully
save her life and her love.
She was there and she felt a sense of relief as she
climbed the stairs to the warmth of the bus. The warm struck her and she was
reminded of his warmth - as his arms enveloped her so many times before
If only if only --- she found a seat and an aisle to herself. As she settled into her seat
she compulsively checked her phone to see if he had texted. He always texted -
he was compulsive about being in touch and connected. But as she glanced at the screen there was nothing.
This could mean only one thing and her tears returned silently
The screen
was blank - even her tears could not obscure that fact! She knew what that
meant what it always meant. He was angry and his anger had not abated. He left
her last night and the parting words rang in her ears like sour gongs and
bells.
Yet here she was on her way to Boston. He did not
text and she told herself that he was still wallowing in his bitterness and
anger. That was his way not to text when he always did.
The bus came
to life she could feel the throb of the engine she turned her face to the
window and surveyed the grey morning - ashes to match the ashes in her heart. They
moved out onto the road. Soon the warmth, her tiredness and the throb and
motion of the buss lulled her into a forgetful sleep
She did not dream but was as if dead and devoid of
thought
She woke at
Hartford. Her neck ached from the sleeping position she had occupied - her eyes were sandy and caked
from her tears and her mouth dry and like cotton. She reached for the water she
had packed and drank deeply - thinking how after they had made love she offered
him the bottle of water to drink from and then she would drink herself. The memory only served to sadden her as she
thought of him and the words the many words that had passed between them the
night before - bitter words - sweet words angry words - silence so much silence
The bus ran forward on its inexorable march to
Boston taking her to that crises that would either make her so incredibly happy
or so profoundly miserable. If only he would forgive her - if only he would
open his eyes and his heart and see that she had meant no harm - it was
meaningless it was stupid it had no real meaning. Why did he insist on being so
narrow so closed so fixed in his own opinions?
