I was expecting you to wait for me by the entry of the lecture hall, but you didn’t. I will not lie, I was actually a little heart broken. In fact, I was so heart broken that I refused to make eye contact with you for weeks, but I knew your eyes were lingering, over my hair, and when the first ray of spring light pierced the Midwestern sky, I started to leave my coat at home, hoping you would noticed my figure, and break our armistice. But, you didn’t. This drove me mad. A midterm came and passed and still no contact with you. I would move about in the cold, dimly lit cylinder shaped lecture hall, trying my best to catch a glimpse of your smile, or a raised eyebrow. I did, but I also had to admit, it really no longer mattered. I had met a nice, tall, brown eyed Sophomore from Purdue, who would occasionally, stop by on his way to his hometown for midnight sex and lukewarm conversation. We were causal, but I could feel the tide changing, he would stay longer, longer after sex. He wanted to have breakfast and cuddle. I avoid the subject of “us” for only so long. I guessed that I was counting on you, to notice me, to love me, even if it was from afar.
And one day, a real gloomy day, I was lost in my thoughts, in preparing for my next lecture, in counting the last bucks I had stashed away for tomorrow’s nightcaps, it was then, you reached out and grasped the tenderest part of my arm, so firmly, as if we were already lovers.
“If I were to wait for you, any longer, we’ll never get married on time.” You said.
I pivoted on the balls of feet, the same way, I do when I am dancing on stage. My hair briefly slapped your chest, and the “offended bitch” look melted off my face into a pleasant surprise.
“I didn’t know we're on a timetable.” I said, trying my best to mask my excitement.
“Well, now that we’re talking, maybe, we could get our train back on track, no?” You said, in such a smooth baritone ladled with Minnesotan notes.
“Maybe.” I said, as the excitement leaked out of me, and latched onto to you.
As the entire class, slipped by, we pretend that we had no where to go, that I wasn’t pressed for time, and you didn’t have a paper due at two. I can no longer remember who decided it was best to play hooky. I just remember the warm sun heating every particle in my right arm as it hung outside of your old pickup, on the way to local spot, that “we” just needed to be.
You singed along to Bruce on the radio and I listened as I heard the finest rendition of “Born in The USA,” in B flat. The seats in your old pickup were covered with silver duck tape, and pieces of dingy, yellow form poked out of the few patches of leather that were still attached. You placed your bronzed hand on a spot next your thigh, and glanced over at me, winking and still singing. I continue to feel heat, but not on my arm. I started into the open road and the beautiful azure sky, as I slid my hand across jagged pieces of leather to you. Your grasp was moist, slightly hard from your calluses, but very loving.
I remembering that day, right now, as if I could squeeze the life out of it, and back into you. I am not sure how I am supposed to act now. I am not sure about anything except, that moment, when we first laid eyes on each other. I haven’t been cognitive during this whole ordeal. I’ve just nodded when your mother or sisters or aunts suggest something.
“Wouldn’t it be nice, to have his viewing in the living room, like Grandfather’s?” Your mother said.
I said nothing. I couldn’t help but look at my hands, and my wedding band.
“Lisa, Lisa, sweetie, do you hear me?” Your mother said. She wore her worry on her face, along the creases next her thin lips, which she tried in vain to fill with foundation. Your sister,Lindsay, just shook her head and talked over me.
“Shucks, I thought having her involved would be a good idea.”
“Quiet, she just lost her husband. Show some sympathy, I raised you with it.” Your mother said as she placed her soft, wrinkly hand over my own.
I really did appreciate it and them at that moment. However, I just wasn’t sure about how to display your corpse. Your corpse--you were supposed to never be a corpse, James. Now, I am discussing about whether not it is proper to display it in our house next to your beloved baby grand, how obscene!
But, now you’re here in a simple casket that I had to fight your oldest brother over. God, you have too many siblings. Why couldn’t you’ve been like the rest of us, and come from a family of 2.5 kids! And your siblings had a shit ton of kids! When will this tradition end? I can’t even think for some brat running amuck in my parlor. I cannot sleep for one of your sympathetic sisters, peaking in my bedroom door, asking me “Do you wanna talk?” with your accent. It is driving me mad. It really is. Almost, more than smelling your scent on my pillow. Last night, I was so mad at you that I punched all the pillows.
I did. I punched every stupid pillow on our bed. I specifically told you, “ Don’t sleep with my pillow, James! You slob in your sleep.” Yet, you did it anyway and now I am stuck with two pillows that reek of your scent, a mixture of sandelwood, cider chips and musk.Now, that you’re dead, I couldn’t bring myself to wash 'em.
I briefly thought about sticking your pillows in your casket, but I didn’t, for fear, one of your nosey sisters would see me and think I’ve gone mad.
But, I have gone mad. I’ve heard your footsteps in the hallway last night. It’s true. I knew you were going to come through the door and smile, that same smile, like when you first greeted me, outside of Econ 101. I was filled with anticipation and I was up until two, partially because I was frighten and partially, because I was excited again, like when you first touched me.
Now, I am touching you, but it’s not the same. I was never in love with the body propelling you through time and into my sphere. I was in love with your energy. I was in love with your sense of wonder, and good manners. I was in love with the way you held me during the night and how you would sing in a rich, buttery tone as you made eggs for us.
As I hold your hand, all I can feel is stiffness, death. When I look around this house, that is all I see as well. I see myself turning red, as I am screaming at you. I see your eyes as you tried to plead with me, as you try your best to keep your woman. I am sorry James. I am truly sorry for all the things that I said, before you walked out of our house and drove into on coming traffic. I don’t believe in a higher power, this you know;yet, I can’t help but feel that I am paying for a crime. I was left behind to live out my days without you.
That’s hell, don’t you think? I spent twenty years before meeting you, searching for something. I was lucky that I just so happen to take a class I didn’t really need. I was so lucky for so long. I have been lucky for seventeen years. But, luck like all things in this universe, must come to end. I was going to kiss your lips one last time, but I was interrupted by Lindsay’s youngest, who yelled out, “Gross,” as my lips were a few inches from yours. I placed my hands on the side of your smooth casket and yelled with all of my frustration, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
The young boy looked at me with his blank face and too close blue eyes and began yelling for his mother. He said, “Aunt Lisa is going psycho.”
I was. I truly was. Your service was over by two. I asked your family in a polite tone to leave my house by five. They were gone by three thirty. Every last one of them gave me a dirty look. But, that was fine with me, especially, since I gave one equally dirty back. As your tribe drove off, I sat down at our piano, and played an elementary rendition of “Born in The USA,” as I sobbed into my red wine.
Your train has left the station and I missed it.
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