Secondhand Girlfriend

.32

And if I ever, fall in love again, I will be sure that the lady is a friend.

Spinning around in the desk chair, I look at the clock on the wall to check the time. Fifteen minutes left, I can do this, just occupy yourself. I turn the music up a little louder on my phone, and take a blank sheet of paper from the printer as I grab a pen. The ink spills onto the page in the form of slightly curving lines, and deep hash marks as I move my hand about. I have never considered myself an artist, but I do think of my drawings as good. Most of them are unfinished sketches of people, or drawings of still-life that somehow piqued my interest. And even though I could have done either one, I've decided to draw a stick figure family of sorts.

There is a father, a mother, a daughter, and a son, but there is also rift between the family. With the father and daughter on one side, and the son and mother on the other. I draw little suns over the mother and daughter, signifying that they are light, that they are good. A waning half moon is drawn over the father, he is dark, neither good nor bad. Finally the son has a storm cloud with the sun peeking from behind it, he is...confused, but the mother gives him clarity. My eyebrows furrow together in concentration as I section the scene off, then I move on to another.

A bridge is now closing the rift between the family, no one has crossed but the mother is farther away from the son. The cloud above his head is slowly swallowing the sun, and rain has begun to fall from the cloud over his head; close by a plant has sprouted. While the cloud covers the sun, the moon has gone through a phase and is now a crescent. Once again I section off the scene, shifting it to another.

The mother now stands on the bridge, and the sun has been reduced to a corner as the cloud continues to engulf it. And the plant sprout near the son has grown, but he takes no notice as his focus is on the disappearing sun. Now the moon has vanished over the father's head, the father is starting something new. As I begin to draw another scene, I tell myself that this is nothing more than a silly doodle. Because if I let myself believe any different, then the drawing will have become my life, making everything so much more real.

Now the mother is across the bridge, standing next to the daughter; their suns have conjoined, creating a large sun that has now shed light to the dark. The father is in possession of his own little sun, and everything is perfect except for the son. His sun is nothing more than a sliver behind the ever growing cloud, yet still the budding plant has grown, blossoming into a flower. Finally he notices the flower, and what a beautiful flower it is; he begins to wonder how such a magnificent thing could bloom in such horrible conditions. The scene shifts.

One massive sun hangs over the father, mother and daughter, they are bright light: pure. As for the son, his cloud has broken and the sun shines through. Because of a flower that somehow bloomed in the adversity of a storm, he is happy and nothing can take his sunshine away. I bite my lip as realise that I am running out of space on the paper, but begin the next scene anyway. An unknown hand has pulled the flower up by its roots, leaving a hole where it had once been.

My head snaps up as the door to the office opens, revealing the next manager on shift. I look at the clock on the wall, my fifteen minutes are up, and so am I as I stand to my feet. With a curt nod, I leave the record store, the drawing held tightly in my hand and step out onto the sidewalk. Once out of the doors, I pull my lighter from my pocket and hold it close to the paper. A flick of my thumb and a flame jumps from the lighter to the drawing, slowly burning what I had created. Letting the scorching parchment fall to the ground, I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans and walk away.

$ $ $ $ $

"Probabtion for a year, a restraining order, and forty hours of community service," Andre answers, putting a spoonful of corn into his mouth.