Every Story Has a Beginning

She sat across from me with her arms folded. I’d occasionally glance over at her, but I didn’t want to give her the pleasure of eye contact while she continued to lecture me. My other friend was blankly staring at me, I couldn’t tell where her leanings were. Then she took a sip from her coffee.

I dislike coffee.

 

He woke up that morning feeling quite numb. He could never understand why he was in that place. It looked and felt like home, but it wasn’t, the people there didn’t know his home and laughed at him whenever he talked about Florida. He missed the sun, it always seemed to rain here. But what he missed the most was his camera, photography didn’t exist here, like Florida.

He put his morning robe on and went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of black coffee. He sat down at the table scanning the classifieds in the newspaper, he needed a job badly.

He was a photographer.

 

She stood on the outer range underneath the bus cover. It was pouring out rain and she wanted to stay dry, but she didn’t want to be near the other people huddling in for shelter. She disliked strangers.

It was then that she saw him across the street-holding a different girl. It had been months since the two had broken up, but she still missed him secretly. They weren’t together that long, they didn’t even get the chance to enjoy one another. She wanted to be that other girl, he looked so happy.

She took a cigarette from her pocket and lit it. She savored the taste of clove. It would help drive away her memories, but the bus pulled up seconds later.

Buses always come after you light up.

 

I didn’t know what I was doing there. I was comfortable, and asleep, only an hour ago and then my parents dragged me here. I was unpacking my bag out onto the floor, sprawling out old newspapers and magazines that my parents had stuffed into my bag.

There was a woman in a brown suit, who seemed to look like a clone of Annie Lennox, gazing down upon me with intrigue as I continued to pull out the contents of my bag. What appeared to be her husband, was playing piano music on a vinyl player. This place is strange.

“I know you” she said to me.

 

I was staring at the seats on the bus filling up with people. I was sitting next to a window, my arm around my girlfriend. She was sleeping after a long day.

In the middle of the bus there were three men, one with a pet kennel in the next to him. They had come all the way from Canada, I overheard them weave their tale about the cat to the fellow passengers of the bus.

Now let me tell you what I had heard about that cat.

 

“What was it you had wanted to tell me?” she said with a frown of curiosity. He had been putting this off for too long, but he was still nervous. She could tell. “C’mon, you can tell me.”

“W-well, to be blunt…I think I-I’m really starting to like you…” he managed to work those words, but he said it. He said it! Her small frown had become a smile, and she had a small laugh.

“I like you too.” She already knew he liked her-but she didn’t really care-it sounded better when she heard it. “Uhm, do you want to hold hands.”

“That’d be nice” he said with a smile.

Their hands were warm.  

 

It was raining outside when I looked out the window. Everybody else had gone to the funeral, but I didn’t. I couldn’t stand the thought of it all, I wasn’t strong enough for that. So I looked out at the rain.

The bird began to chirp on the other side of the house. I thought it was upset because it wanted the sheet of it’s cage, my siblings didn’t like the bird so they thought the sheet would make it quiet. I took off the sheet and tossed it on the floor; the bird was still chirping and it looked like there were splashes of small tears on the bottom of the cage. I opened up the cage and stuck out my finger, he jumped on my finger. I stroked it’s feathers gently. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I want to go home” it told me.

 

My legs were swaying off the edges of the dock. I would gradually scribble some writing inside my notebook. When I wasn’t writing I was looking out at the water.

I couldn’t think of anything to write today, only beginnings, and things I didn’t like. I liked writing things that interlaced memory with fantasy, but I couldn’t tell if that’s what I did. They’ve become too blurred.

I pulled myself up from the dock and started to walk away. Purposefully leaving my notebook behind for someone to find. Was it you?