Trapped in Forever

22 ~ Packed with Calories and Sympathy

Golden illumination spilt from the street lights that stood on the corner of each cobblestone sidewalk, beside the crosswalk post, with yard sale signs and missing pet posters taped onto the black pole, besides a somewhat vacant newspaper stand—one lone man sitting there, in a dark green lawn chair, with a potbelly stretching the buttons on his Sabres jacket, reading a Penthouse magazine—as I pulled into one of the various empty parking spots in front of Mo’s Diner. Through the windows, as I pressed my foot steadily on the brake pedal and grasped my fingers around the gearshift, I could see that, although the dining area was well-lit and that the chairs were still on the floor, and not upside down on the tables, legs pointing to the ceiling, that it was nearly empty. There were a few men wearing greasy baseball caps and graying beards that covered their swollen cheeks as they ate, shoulders hunched and elbows propped against the table.

I relaxed into the worn seating of my Smart Car; the material of the seat indented in the shape of my body and giving anyone else who drove it more reason to complain, other than the cramped arrangements, and sucked in a breath. I wasn’t even sure why I was here, after midnight, when most of the town had flicked off the light bulbs in their lamps, tucked a bookmark into their novels, and climbed beneath the covers of the bed, putting everything on hold until the morning. And I wasn’t sure why I had chosen here of all places to escape to when I snuck into my sister’s bedroom, surprised to see her figure curled beneath the duvet and hair sprawled against the pillow, and why I didn’t choose to go somewhere else. Maybe I could’ve gone to a store, like Wal-Mart, open all night long, and just wandered around, hearing my sneakers squeak against the tiles, and ignored the other late-night shoppers, pushing their empty carts with blank expressions, or just driven around, keeping my eyes peeled for drunk drivers and on the illuminated signs stabbed into the earth on the side of the roads.

But instead, I chose to come here, to one of the places I tried to avoid the most, and it didn’t even feel wrong or uncomfortable to be here—my heart wasn’t beating in trepidation of seeing him and my palms were dry and unclenched at my sides. Everything told me to be here, that it was okay, that it was right.

And what it told me most was that there was someone here who could understand this better than anyone. Someone who didn’t have to survey my countenance for concealed warning signs, or tiptoe around me like I had surrounded myself with broken shards of glass, choosing their words carefully—omitting the words death, suicide, friend, or even sleeping pills from their vocabulary—or someone who would try to shrink me, telling me that I should talk to someone, to a professional maybe, or if I ever wanted to call when we both knew that I never would. If you ever need anything, just let me know, okay? If you ever want to talk, just give me a call, alright? If you ever want a cold casserole you’ll never eat, you know where to find me, right?

They all offered me favors that they knew I would never cash, but made them feel accomplished anyway. As if just offering me a meal or the chance to talk was enough to make up for the fact that one of the most important people in the world to me left without any indication or answers as to why I wasn’t good enough to stick around for. Why suddenly, in the middle of the night, she decided that hanging out with me in the front seat of the car, with Diet Cokes placed in between us in the cup-holders attached to the console, and listening to Michael Jackson, talking about guys we never kissed, but wanted to, and about girls who shot looks in our direction as we walked in the hallway at school, murmuring rumors that were true, wasn’t good enough for her anymore.

But here there was someone, probably wiping the sweat off of his forehead with his torso wrapped in a flour dusted apron, smelling of icing and sugar, both of which were probably stuck to his clothes, and a hairnet tugging on his blond hair, who might actually understand that. Who didn’t need to offer phone calls or casseroles or anything else that was given by someone who obviously never understood what it was like, assuming that we actually wanted to say the words that we were dying to keep hidden.