Wednesday, August 29, 2007

The End of the Evening

Lying alone on the sofa, cushioned by a pillow and some music, he remembers how it went. A weekend consists of 48 hours (maybe 60 if you squeeze). To spend the majority of those hours with another, to enjoy that majority with another, and have them leave, angry, within twenty minutes of the remaining minority, is so anticlimactic. The majority of time is eclipsed by the minority, and he's left holding nothing, nothing but a half drank glass of wine.

And all he really remembers is that previous majority. He doesn't really care why she left, he can barely remember. What he recalls is her warm breath on his neck on the morning of the first 24 hours, and her coy smile towards the end of the 48th hour as she remembered something she never told him, and the fire in her eyes, in the last minute, when she told him it wasn't worth it, that he wasn't worth, and that she didn't want to see him again.

How do you possess that fire, that life? It heats up and heats up and then it burns down, down and out.

As he opens the window to let in the evening air, the smothered sound of raindrops are heard. He smiles. He can't control the weather, can't stay dry in its mist, and he can't contain her passion. How to quell the fire of her insides? For a while?

All that keeps him sane is his version of life as it dance, in the rain, through his door, into the street, into the wetness of the night, past his window, back to her apartment. And so it goes...

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

McGuff, I love reading all the stories you write. I wonder why so many of them leave you guessing about the ending. Are you going to expand or leave us hanging???
Marnie

McGuff said...

A little of both I suspect. Though hopefully more of the former...

thanks