One After the Other

An unnamed narrator thinks over a strange conversation with a lover two years ago.

I’m walking down the barely lit street behind two little teenage girls talking about I don’t know what. I couldn’t listen to them even if I tried. My mind is too blocked up for any of that. Full of you. The little girls are cackling and I press my palm against my forehead like I’ve been doing all day. You hit me very hard, I’m sure you know that.

            It’s been exactly two years since I last saw you. I was in our apartment on the couch, drinking, when you called me. I didn’t answer partially because I really didn’t want to talk to you, and partially because I know you don’t like being around me when I drink. Moments after the phone stopped ringing you came in practically running through the door. “Come on,” you said. “I have to show you something.”

            A gust of wind blows newspaper across an empty road. The teenagers jump in and out of sight under street lamps. I can only imagine what the bags under my eyes look like. I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in days. Last night I stayed up staring at a photo of you and me. We stood amidst the soft hues of sunset. You were kissing me on the cheek. My phone is ringing and without looking at it I throw it as far as I can.

            You grabbed my arm and dragged me off the couch, pulled me by the wrist out the door. You had that big smile on your face that I hadn’t seen in months. The smile I fell in love with. I still didn’t want to talk to you at that moment, but you were the one who did all the talking anyway. “So I know I have class right now and you hate that I pay so much just to play hooky all the time,” with one hand in the air you soared down the old wooden stairs, the other hand bringing me along. “But none of that matters anymore.”

            One last cigarette sits between my lips. Fitting. I can’t find my lighter but I have a matchbook somehow. I couldn’t even venture a guess as to where it came from. There’s no logo or writing anywhere, just plain thin cardboard wrapped around stalks of wood with deep red tips. I strike a match and hold it to the end of the cigarette, inhaling deeply. Inside my coat is a small flask of rum but I don’t want it at all.

            I can’t remember the last time I had held your hand for so long. Our arms snaking through crowds of people walking in every direction, you kept your hold on me. “I went to the park today, just to sit around and watch the wind blow through the trees,” you told me, “when a little old man came up and started talking to me.” Though I was still resentful, it felt good to have your hand in mine, to hear you talk about innocuous nothings. I missed this.

            The teenagers ahead disappeared, I don’t know when or where. I’m only half-paying attention to the world right now. The other half of me - I don’t know where that went either. Smoke burns my lungs. I part my lips but don’t exhale, just let the smoke drift out like creeping fog.

            “He told me I looked to be in need of advice.” You chuckled softly. “I told him he must have an eye for that sort of thing.” When we stopped at a busy intersection, you looked up at me and said, “I was being sarcastic but he was completely serious, like, ‘Yes. Yes I do.’” Then the crosswalk cleared and you pressed on, still pulling me along.

            The cigarette burns down until the last hot coal falls from the filter. I keep the filter in between my lips for a few seconds before tossing it on the ground. A homeless man lies on the street corner, bundled in a raggedy blanket. He’s asleep so he doesn’t notice but I give him my wallet and the little bit of change in my pocket. After a moment of consideration, I reach into my coat and set down the rum too.

            “I was thinking of just up and leaving,” you said. “But he looked me straight in the eyes and he said, ‘When you love someone, you have to be willing to risk everything for them. And I mean everything.’” When we reached the town’s one and only bridge I wondered, for the first time, where we were going. “And I swear to god,” you continued, “In the reflection of his eye was not me or the park but another place entirely. There was a meadow of bright flowers and a little cottage surrounded by pine trees.” And I wondered, for the first time, what you were talking about.

            I remember exactly where I was standing when I last saw you. I can see it in the distance, under a flickering streetlight.

            Before I could ask any questions, you changed the subject. “I know I can’t take back anything I’ve said or done, but this could be a new beginning for us.” You stopped and let go of my hand, finally. Then you sat on the railing, turned and looked over the river below. “Do you trust me?” you asked.

            The next day I consulted a doctor who told me that every few years or so, someone attempts suicide by jumping from this bridge, inevitably failing. He said the drop isn’t high enough, that the most you would do is bruise a large portion of your body. Maybe break a wrist or an ankle.

            I didn’t answer you because I didn’t really understand the context. You said, “Look, I know we’re in a rocky place right now, but I love you and I know that we’ll be happy together if you take this leap of faith with me.” My only response, my last words to you were, “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

            I’m an idiot, I know.

            I’m leaning over the railing now. I can hear the flow of water but all I see is darkness.

            Your reaction was immediate and stern. “You’ll follow me into the river sooner or later, I know,” you snapped. “One after the other, we’ll make our way to the cottage in the meadow.” And with that, you leaned backward and plunged down into the river. I reached out as you fell, too late. The tips of my fingers brushed against the sole of your shoe.

            And with that, I lean too far and tumble over the railing. One after the other, descending through the black of night, I love you. I trust you.

            When the water settled, you were nowhere to be found. Search parties looked up and down the river for days. No one knows where you’ve gone, if you’re alive or dead.

            I hit the water headfirst, diving deeper than expected. I can’t see anything, but the muddy riverbed knocks against my back. Still I sink deeper. The ground swallows me whole but I don’t feel confined. I’m blinded not by darkness but by light, and cover my eyes. When I uncover them I am standing in a meadow of bright flowers, facing a tiny stone house. I don’t turn to look but I know you’re there next to me, and I squeeze your hand in mine.

Reviews

[Cindy Marietta]

This was amazing. Probable one of my favorite things I've read on here. The ending was perfect :)