About how a person can still love their significant lover, no matter how much they are hurt by them.
The only appeal John Reatche had was his charm; he exuded it. If he had lived during World War II he could have stopped Pearl Harbor from being blown apart with his words and charisma. He, of course, drew me into his spider web, and I was very willing to oblige.
At the start of our relationship, he was the man every girl wanted. He kept me warm on cold nights and made me feel secure on emotionally scarring days.
But every man has his drawbacks; even John Reatche the Charmer had them.
He had a rule about not calling him. On the first date that was fine- even gentlemanly- but after a week it got tedious. Sure, he called me every night, but he always began the conversation with, ‘How are you?’ When I asked him the same, the answer was without fail, ‘Tired.’ When I questioned further, he’d simply reply that he had been working. But he had no job, so I figured he’d been doing chores.
He always remained quietly strict about his parents. I assumed it had to do with all of the chores he was allotted, but the fact that he seemed so bitter turned me off.
His house was off limits, and I once again naively believed it to be because of his parents, so I didn’t question it. My house became a frequent safe haven to us, and I was happy.
The day I began to feel uneasy was the day he came to school smelling of gasoline. It was faint, covered by a recent shower, but being the only one who could get intimately close to him meant I could detect it. He waved it off, describing all of the work he had to do on his parents’ car. His eyes remained wide and honest, and the unease set in.
Merely a month later, I practically crawled to his house, bawling my misery over some issue I find irrelevant now. I had craved his support, his comfort, his words. His location was provided using the Yellow Pages, and I was surprised to find he lived close to me. The trek to his house still sticks out in my mind as lonely, though.
It took several doorbell rings to gain his attention long enough for him to open the door. Once he did, I couldn’t help but recognize the smell of gasoline, and I stepped away warily. He looked at me with those same big, honest eyes he had donned a few months beforehand, and I took note of his stained shirt.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, a tad forcefully.
I hesitated, I admit. “I… just need you right now.” My words brought forth images, to which my eyes watered again.
He pulled me into an embrace, like all good boyfriends are supposed to do, and I nearly choked on the overwhelming aroma permeating from him. I curled my arms around him heedlessly, and his exceedingly fast heartbeat thrummed in my eardrums.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, that you have to feel hurt.” he crooned to me, rocking me as if I were a baby.
I pulled away, letting out a small cough. “Working on another car?”
His face pulled into something I cannot describe, and he nodded.
“Oh.” He continued to talk to me, kissing away all of my fears, and when I went home I had a slight skip in my step. Like a good boyfriend should, he had made the earth stop and wait for my problems to be averted.
John Reatche swept back down to his basement, wiping at his brow. She’s gotten too close, he thought, I can’t have her now.
The wooden steps beneath his sneakers creaked and groaned, and he sighed his distress with them. An intermittent sob reached him, and he huffed a laugh.
His sneakers clapped onto cement ground, and he instinctively moved to the far corner, feeling at home with the pitch black atmosphere. “So,” he started, “how you doin’?”
A muffled whimper was the reply, and he laughed again. “Oh really? So am I.” he moved around the basement easily, having memorized all of the paths, and gathers supplies as he talks. “You know, I’m kinda sad now. My girlfriend just came over- you’ll meet her soon- but you know I’m not supposed to have anyone over.” He shrugged, though the dark shrouded the movement, and continued, “I really liked her too! But… I have to break up with her.”
Moving back to the corner, the sound of pouring liquid could be heard, splashing across the cement and an object that whimpered and coughed in despair. “Okay, momma, I need you to take deep breaths.”
A match was struck, and it guttered in the absolute darkness, giving light to a small ring around John and his victim. Tearful doe eyes stared back at him, and he revered in the sporadic sobs echoing around him.
I still long for him when times get tough; when I need a shoulder to lean on or a few comforting words. I can still feel those arms around my back and the whisper of lips against my cheeks.
To this day, I cannot comprehend why he broke up with me. His embrace had felt sincere, his words longing. I don’t think he wanted to leave me.
I immediately suspected that his name was an anagram, but all that I could come up with was ...
Teacher John or Cheater John
This story seized my attention and held it, but at the end, you didn't give me resolution. I don't know if John died and she assumed that he didn't want to see her any more or if he literally broke up with her (which would be anticlimactic) I thought that she'd be a goner.
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