I guess a flashback would help clarify. The conflict was an internal one for this character.
Short Story / Strangers
Strangers
I never really thought much about Angela until she left. I wore her love like an old pair of shoes, with comfort and indifference. The letter I found on the kitchen table wasn’t written by the woman I knew. A stranger had composed it in a language I couldn’t understand. “Drifting apart”, “not the same people we once were”, fragmented thoughts with no difinitive interpretation. I take the faded pages from my wallet occasionally and remember the begining of the end.
My reaction was typical of a man who had just stepped out from a dark cave. Everything that might be considered normal hurt. The light of that first dawn burned my eyes. The cold spot beside me in the bed made the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up and a rush of fear run down my body. I dressed quickly to escape the intimacy of that room. In it, I felt more naked than I ever had in her presence.
Stumbling down the hall, I listened for the clatter of dishes and half expected to smell coffee brewing like any other day. Nothing but the sound of a mourning dove on a nearby rooftop penetrated the quiet. The silence laid heavy in the air like death. The only aroma detectable was of stale wine from a bottle left on the counter. It’s not a dream, I thought, and reality assaulted my body again.
I wandered around the kitchen looking for coffee filters, trying to calculate the measurements for a two-cup pot. Lost in my refuge, moving from cupboard to cupboard, I attempted, in vain, to avoid the sensation that kept attacking me.
The coffee tasted stronger than I cared for. Sitting in the silence, I drank it anyway, constantly pushing away mental snapshots of her from my mind. Work would help.
I reached the faculty room nearly an hour before my usual arrival. The impersonal decor of the room gave solace from the emotional spasms. Gray-blue walls distanced me from my private self. I put on my occupational coat of armor and began shuffling through papers and rereading the day’s assignments.
My colleagues slowly filtered in with their usual morning discourse. Their arms were filled with books of assorted subject matter as the daily practice of debates and gossip began. Without looking up, I responded only to direct remarks, evading the ritualistic chatter that might eventually develop into conversation of more personal matters.
I conducted my classes as any other day, giving instructions and speaking, but the voice seemed to be coming from someone else.My words didn’t match my thoughts. Inside, I bounced back and forth between pain and numbness. At times, I felt as though I stood outside myself watching the last few weeks on a movie screen. Scenes starring Angela. I examined each in a cold, analytical manner, looking for clues as a detective might. I saw nothing unusual, only the every day things that had been apart of our lives for the last twelve years; robotic words that passed between us, the automatic kiss good-bye, the regularity of meals and sex. Not the same people?
Then, in my state of shock and ignorance, I couldn’t see what had changed. What did she mean and why had she left?
Needing an explanation, other than the vacant jargon of her letter, I convinced myself she had lost her senses. There couldn’t be any other explanation. Some hormonal imbalance or form of delusive depression. By the end of my classes, I was positive the fate of our relationship had absolutely nothing to do with me. Yet, even this conclusion gave me little comfort when the day ended and it was time to return to that empty house.
Anxiety tied my muscles in knots as the door closed behind me. I decided to delay going home for as long as possible. I hadn’t eaten a thing in over twenty-four hours. My stomach ached empty, but from something other than hunger. Dismissing the thought of food, I started the car and began to drive. Nearly an hour passed and still I had no particular destination. Like a mouse on a tread wheel, I circled the city over and over again, getting nowhere and not caring.
Neon glared through the windshield while I waited for a light to turn green. How cliche’, I thought, but what the hell. I didn’t want to be alone but I didn’t want to see the sympathetic faces of my friends, either. I didn’t want to answer any questions. I couldn’t explain what I couldn’t comprehend myself. Unfamiliar, that’s what I needed. That and a drink. “Drown my sorrows” and find comfort in some macho conversation with my fellow “men”. For the first time in my adult life, I felt compelled by some primative yearning for the veiled kinship of male companionship. Well educated, I had thought of myself as above such segregation. I knew better. But, for this moment, I wanted to forget what I knew. I wanted to be someone else.
The door swung open ahead of me, held by a large, leathery hand. I nodded my gratitude, slipping my own hands in my coat pockets. A grunt came from the mass of facial hair in front of me. He turned to the bar puffing his chest like a rooster in full strut. I half questioned my own sanity and thought about leaving, but I didn’t.
Happy hour filled the small pub beyond legal capacity. I ordered a draft and blended into the corner waiting for a stool to empty. The bartender stood behind the bar with one leg cocked up on a cooler, his arms folded acrossed his chest. He would fill an order then return to that position as if posing for a beer comercial. Drink Mack Beer and you can be as narcissistic as me.
The cold felt good on my throat, as I was sure the alcohol would feel to my aching head. It wasn’t long before I felt it’s effect. I was relieved from the thoughts that had haunted me all day. The music of the jukebox and the drone of voices talking about last Sunday’s game diverted my attention. I listened to the stew of dialogue, the slurred speech of more devote patrons and the high pitched squeals of a rather rough looking female making the rounds in her purposely teasing skirt.
A seat opened up at the end of the bar. I sat with my eyes focused on the bubbles in my glass. The door opened and shut in waves as the crowd wandered out, probably to their homes and families. A cool breeze crossed my neckline with each departure, an ominous reminder of my new found bachelorhood. Shuddering, I slid my glass forward. No longer could I taste the bitterness of the beer or feel the froth on the back of my tongue. The glass left a pool of water in front of me. I caught myself spelling her name in the moisture. Angela. My Angel. That’s what I always called her. I saw her face in the grain of the wood. The curve of her lips when she smiled. Angela. My Angel. Her beauty stared back at me from the bar. Beauty I had taken for granted and now could only admire in visions.
My thoughts were those of some heart-sick teenager, some romantic fool, not the thoughts of a logical, grown man.
”Another one, bud?”
The bartender’s words broke the spell and the sound of a break at the pool table replaced the voice in my head. I nodded and pushed a ten through the puddle to rest next to my empty glass.
”Jesus, Steve, how the hell are you?”
A hand slammed between the shoulder blades of the man next to me. The newcomer lifted himself up onto the stool beside my neighbor. He continued the conversation with his rendition of the latest racial humor. A laugh came from my throat, loud and mechanical, even though I hadn’t heard the punch-line and I usually took offence to such things.
The men’s expressions clouded and their talk turned to mumbles. But for an occasional “screw her” and “bitch”, their words weren’t audible. I knew what they were discussing. I could hear their thoughts without hearing their words. I mimicked the ones I could distinguish, to myself. Bitch. Screw her. I don’t need her shit. Frigid words, callous phrases. Yet, I and both men beside me knew what they really meant. They were part of a universal code of pride interpreted and designed by us, dressed in the cover of anger.
Lightheaded, I again withdrew into thoughts of her. An image of an ordinary ride to work. Spring wind blowing her hair wild out the car window like some untamed mustang. Damn you, woman! I want to touch you. I want to choke you!
My glass hit the urethane surface harder than it needed to. Beside me, the cryptography continued.
”Yea, poor bastard, she took everything.”
Yea, poor bastard. She took it all, all that mattered anyway, I thought to myself.
Hot breath torched the back of my ear as a shrill introduction heated the inside.
”Hi, honey, my name’s Pam. You sitting here all alone? You want some company?”
Her hand touched me, caressed my shoulder and slid slowly down my back, coming to the front and resting dangerously close to my groin. The skirt was pushed higher than before. I looked at her and momentarily thought about taking her home. Not so much for the reason she might think but for a voice in the house other than my own, even her fake squeal would be better than that deafening quiet. But, when my eyes reached hers, I turned away. For what ever reasons she may have had, her eyes were dull and cold. I felt repulsed.
The crowd closed in on me. The smell of alohol and cigarette smoke soured my stomach. Music meshed with laughter pressing on my chect like an iron weight, suffocating me. I grabbed my glass, downed its contents and pushed past the woman as if she were an inanimate object. Throwing a bill at the bartender, I mouthed a thanks and rushed for the door.
The parking lot met the contents of my stomach abruptly. I regained my equilibruim after a brief rest on my steering wheel. The road blurred as I pressed the gas petal to its limit, running from the explosion in my eyes.
Opening the front door, I again expected to see Angela’s figure standing there. It wasn’t. The house was dark and lifeless. I ran down the hall to the room I had retreated so quickly from that morning and fell acrossed the unmade bed. Her picture stared at me from the nightstand. I picked it up and held it close in my arms as though it might magically turn into her smooth, warm body. Tears fell from my eyes uncontrollably and I began to sob in a way no man should admit. Hard, rumbling moans came from the pit of my soul until I exhausted all strength and became limp with sleep.
I could tell of the days that followed, the memories that slowly surfaced, but none held the significance of that first day. Never have I seen so clearly or so obtrusively that part of me that lies hidden.
How ironic my thinking, at the time. An intruder had taken my life and cut my world with the scrape of a pen. Time has taught me otherwise. The stranger was not the composer of the letter but the woman I shared my life and bed with for so many years. As much a stranger was the man I thought I knew, myself. As for my illusion of happiness, it was shattered by nothing more than the consequence of truth.
The End
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
kortneyrose reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
This 98 word review has not been unlocked.
tvmott reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
This 59 word review has not been unlocked.
Seasdaday reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
This 81 word review has not been unlocked.
BrianA reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
I liked this story of deserted husband, and the revelations and considered thougts of the character that followed. I identified with his predicamnet and states of mind, which days to me you nailed it. Some points:
`(That day) (M)my reaction was…’ – This is a suggestion because it brings reader into present, after thoughts of past in previous paragraph – I found myself a little confused here.
`...the door closed…’ – specify door – because of end of last paragraph assume door of his house he has entered – me anyway.
`above such segregation.’ – didn’t understand what was meant by this. How it fits with previous and foowing thoughts.
`...wood(.); (T)the curve…’
`An intruder…’ This sentence didn’t work for me – why call `intruder’ and suggest sentence not needed – confuses.
There are several spelling errors a spell check will catch.
This was really well written and the way you explore his reactions and feeling was good. There was litttle re-crimination, just resignation. He doesn’t think of going after her etc, or think of what he did wrong except take her for granted, but perhaps that is all there is. It was paced well and I like the way you stepped it with action and the places he went. Descriptions were appropriate/ not overdone. Good work.
- add/view comments (2)
gariverse reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
half way through reading this, i’m wondering wether a story will emerge, for at the moment, it is a portrait; a very well drawn portrait that is familiar to many people yet has the marks of the individual in question upon it. The punctuation and general sentance length seems a little repetative; there is some relief from this at “The bartender’s words broke the spell,” Etc. It might be worth keeping more of an eye on the range of sentences and the pace, to vary it a little more although i think here, it works for the most part.
Having read the rest now; Lots of good references to how people feel under these conditions; well done. The brief, stabbing, regularity of the statemnets one after the other did continue til the end; “This was like this, that was like that, i did this, it seemed like that” Personally i would definately vary the rythm. Also the wondering wether there would be a plot beyond the portrait; maybe you could have started with the rejection of the woman in the bar, then described how he got there ( the morning scene) then finished with him going home alone, just so the reader has a hook, a sense of beginning middle and end. I did like it though, it was sensitivly and warmly realised and it reminded me, of, well, some stuff!
P.S.
The word ‘laid’, means ‘placed’ or ‘put’. I know this because the various tenses of lay are a nightmare and easily forgettable. because i’m trying to finish a novel at the moment, i have lists of easy things to get wrong or forget, on the wall next to my laptop! ‘Lay’is the past tense for laid, it is also a position, in the past tense.
slenderpanther reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
this was a very engaging piece… so much so that i could honestly feel the character’s pain… great work!
damadelmuerte reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
You have a good perceptive with your narrator, good detail and a nice flow of description. There’s not a lot of action here though and the story seems a bit drawn out. Maybe if you added a flashback from when he was with Angela, or just something that added to the story, it would help out. I can’t help but wonder more of the background to this story and what is supposed to happen afterwards. It’s more of a reflection than a story and I think with more focus on the actual conflict will help you move past that. You’ve done a good job with what you have so far.
Helmling reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
I think we need a lot more connection with your narrator to feel his estrangement. Perhaps some details of their lives together would help. At the very least, we should see a meeting between the two now that they are “strangers” to show how things are changed, how they are not what he thought they were, etc.
Dauna reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100%% of the Item
There are a few minor technical errors. The story flowed well and your use of metafors is nice. You can feel the characacters pain. The only problem I had was at the very end. In the last paragraph you state and intruder had taken your life. However, there was some confusion if Angela was the intruder or if in fact the intruder was real. I reread this sevearl times. I think this piece needs a little clarity. Over all though a very nice job.
Showing 1 - 9 of 9
Review item
Add to favesCreator
Relevant Links
Item Stats
GENERAL
9 Reviews 4 Comments
Version 1
Latest Activity: over 2 years ago
REVIEW QUEUE
Appeared in Queue: 0 Times
Skipped: 0 Times
Ratings & Rankings
